


Things We Lost In The Fire

by carolinelamb



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Depression, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, chillywilly, willton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 00:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 60,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3998842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinelamb/pseuds/carolinelamb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time it would have been all he cared about—to be respected by his peers and his colleagues, to maintain appearances. He would have never let himself be seen in this apathetic state but everything seems just so exhausting. Even smiling tires him. </p><p>He doesn’t pretend to listen to them. He turns away in the middle of their sentences, turning up the TV. The nurses and doctors don’t comment in the first days, just leave the room but they start giving him different meds.</p><p>On most days he simply closes his eyes and let himself drift off. He just wants to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [notmyyacht](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoamooseketeer/pseuds/cocoamooseketeer) for her excellent beta-work! As I went back and altered the edited draft all remaining errors are mine!

The first time Frederick awakens he is in a hospital pumped to the gills with morphine. 

For a very brief, fleeting and mindlessly happy moment he thinks he is dead, but the beeping of the oxygen machine anchors him to reality.

Although the pain he should feel is switched off by the medication he knows it’s there underneath. (Morphine used to have a far stronger effect on him, which extended to feelings of euphoria, unfortunately completely absent in his current state.)

The nurses and doctors fill the room, take his stats, mark his improvements on an iPad, then leave. They engage with him politely, but he is still out of it. He can’t focus on anything longer than a few moments.

After a few days, his waking periods are longer and the world comes at him. He feels immobile, a heavy blanket lying over him. The scar on his torso is hurting. He barely eats. Whatever he eats has a metallic, bland taste.

He knows this kind of numbness—he has seen it in patients and has in the past experienced fleeting moments of it, phases where he barely managed to force himself to appear active and cheerful or at least partaking in the affairs of the world only to come home in the evening and sit in his chair for hours staring into nothingness. 

_This_ though now is nothing he can hide any longer. This is no longer a period of losing interest—it's more like slowly suffocating and being unable to even lift a finger to try to swim upwards again. 

The doctors probably take notes about his depression he is slipping into. Again—he does not care, he is _incapable_ of caring.

Once upon a time it would have been all he cared about—to be respected by his peers and by his colleagues, above all to maintain appearances. He would have never let himself be seen in this apathetic state but everything seems just so exhausting. Even smiling tires him. 

He doesn’t pretend to listen to them. He turns away in the middle of their sentences, turning up the TV. The staff doesn’t comment in the first days, just leave the room but the nurses start giving him different meds.

On most days he simply closes his eyes and let himself drift off. He just wants to sleep.

One day though he wakes up and can feel his body. He feels a faint ache in his back muscles, the stretch in his calves, the linen against the skin of his arms. He can feel the typical disorientation narcotics leave behind–that strange feeling of timelessness.

So they’re weening him off. The lower morphine dosage puts him in a state of mild anxiety though. He can feel the scar on his stomach throbbing. He thinks he can feel it far more than he used to before. At least the pain anchors him.

Noises permeate from outside, people walking by, their voices distorted by the walls and long corridors, wheelchairs, hospital beds and stretchers being pushed passed his doors. If he would crane his neck a bit he could see more of the on-goings outside but what would be the point?

He stares at the ceiling for a while trying to rouse the motivation to think about the days ahead. His future. He doesn’t give a fuck about his future, and he doesn’t even feel anything about not giving a fuck. (If anything he feels a sort of churning dread when thinking about the days and weeks to come.) 

Maybe that bullet destroyed some vital part in his brain, although _rationally_ he knows of course it can’t be. One doesn’t need to be a decent surgeon or medical doctor to be familiar with the layout of the brain. Even a lousy surgeon like him can tell. It still feels though as if he lacks something—an ability he had before. He remembers how much he used to care about things that appear so trivial now, his career, his work, his ego, his house, his car ... he just can’t remember why he’d exert himself so much. 

Whenever he blinks he feels a numb spot on his face, a few inches below his eye. When he raises his hand to his face he can feel the thick bandage taped to his face, the topical numbing agent underneath smeared over his stitched scar. Every time he touches it the memory of this moment flashes through his mind, before his inner eye, but it’s not a real memory. He knows he did not see the bullet flying towards him, or even the glass shattering. It all happened too fast. His brain is building false memories. 

No one visits him. 

Sometimes, people burst in with flowers or presents, apologizing for mistaking the room.

“No, this is room 483,” he tells them, and they hastily leave. 

No one visits him.

In another life he’d have been embarrassed about his lack of friends. That life is gone, and instead embarrassment he takes a perverse pleasure in mocking himself. 

He usually turns on the TV as soon as he wakes up and lets the comforting noise of ads, news anchor voices and TV show intros wash over him, but he doesn’t take anything in. The nurses open the curtains and he stares at the sad, plain urban landscape of Baltimore.

The doctors are chatty, eager to tell him what they fixed. He can’t begrudge them—it must be nice to be proud of accomplishments, and they did a good job on him. They fished the remains of his cheek bone out of his face, managed to save his eye and the movement of his right face, implanted a metal plate in the back of his skull. The scars will be taken care of as well, if he wishes.

He’ll look better than before, one of the doctors, a plastic surgeon, explains enthusiastically.

Chilton manages a lopsided smile.

After a few days FBI agents come in, question him, filling out reports and documents. They talk a lot then ask him if he has any questions and look expectantly at him. Their vaguely threatening demeanor would have intimidated him before, now he just finds it mildly amusing.

He doesn’t ask them anything. He doesn’t ask them about Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter, Miriam Lass, Alana Bloom or Jack Crawford. They can all go to hell.

They tell him bits and pieces. Apparently Alana Bloom is still in a coma. Abigail Hobbs, presumed dead, had been alive all this time, hiding in Hannibal Lecter’s house, is now truly dead. Jack Crawford being treated in the same hospital as is Will Graham, both more or less fighting for their lives. Graham is expected to make it, but Crawford has lost a lot of blood. What a mess.

The only one alive and well is evidently Hannibal Lecter.

After a few weeks, they further lower the dosage of his pain killers. The thick bandages are pulled off carefully and a nurse applies a topical antibiotic and a clear gel to prevent itching. The change makes him irritable and cranky, but he is used to it, from his other stint at the hospital when they had to stitch him together after his loss of a kidney and part of his bowels.

One of the agents cites notes about Lecter he must have written down during Will Graham's imprisonment.

“You knew how dangerous Hannibal Lecter is,” she tells him in a matter of fact tone, "you assessed him correctly and yet—"

She does not mention his deal with Lecter directly though they must know—he was stupid enough to hint at it in his notes and by now they will have read and analyzed every bit of them, listened to his recordings and figured it all out.

He only looks at her, and she looks blankly back at him, barely concealing her judgement.

He turns away.

He is done talking. His scars ache. 

He is officially exonerated, which should be an immense relief. Quite obviously he is not the Chesapeake Ripper, though how Jack Crawford could have suspected him in the first place is a mystery to him, now he can think more clearly. Very likely he never really suspected him anyway—they just wanted to distract Lecter, make him feel secure.

Before the agents leave again, he says, “Will Graham knew too.”

“Excuse me?” One of the agents steps back into his room.

“Will Graham,” Frederick barely recognizes his own voice, hoarse from all those weeks spent in coma, “he knew too. He was an FBI profiler, one of yours and he told you. He told Jack Crawford, the man who had hired him and no one believed him. So why should I have told you?”

The agent nods solemnly, as if not sure what to say, then leaves.

Despite his unorthodox handling of Dr. Abel Gideon he is allowed to return to his post as hospital administrator he is told in a curt e-mail from the hospital board. The board member does not mention his experiments with psychic driving.

He doesn’t reply.

A psychiatrist visits him, a nice guy actually who genuinely seems to want to help—he speaks at length about PTSD, about pain management, about major changes and recovery.

The best way to get rid of him is to smile and to utter some formulaic statements “I need time to come to terms with what happened to me before I can consider therapy, but yes, I am definitely interested!” and so on. He knows he is not okay, but he can't bear scrutiny at the moment.

They shake hands, and then Frederick is finally alone again, free to stare at the ceiling of his room and to sink deeper into the monotonous static white noise his life has become.


	2. Damage Assessment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [notmyyacht](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoamooseketeer/pseuds/cocoamooseketeer) for beta-ing! All remaining errors are mine!

Will Graham is in the same hospital. 

They're all in the same hospital, as far as Frederick knows. Somehow, in the most inopportune moments his thoughts wander to Graham. He wonders how he is doing—if he is able to get up and walk around, if he has regained consciousness, what he must think of how the whole attempt to arrest Hannibal Lecter went down.

Frederick is unsettled by the persistence of his thoughts. In his honest moments he knows Will Graham was the first thing he thought about when he woke up. The most absurd things remind him of Graham—a TV program about lure fishing for example or a daily soap in which one of the actors wears the same unfortunate plaid shirt Will Graham insists on wearing.

He has treated a fair amount of people—friends, lovers, patients—in a shabby manner but from all these people Will Graham is the one haunting him. 

He never used to have these thoughts, consider other people’s feelings. He never used to care. Is this how Will Graham's entire life looks like? Always being swept up in other people's feelings?

He could have been a better person. He could have been _kinder_.

That thought is sobering, because it is alien to him. He has never thought anything like that before. Being a _good person_ has never been of importance to him. He has at some point made mental exercises of what a good person actually constitutes but he has prided himself on being amoral. Morals, he had always stressed, were for mental children, people with infantile mindsets who needed guidance and rules.

There had been that first encounter—Will Graham in his office, avoiding to look into his eyes, a muscle in his face nervously twitching and Frederick for some reason not being able to stop … antagonizing him. Frederick’s thoughts often return to this moment. He had somewhat anxiously observed Graham’s face, looking for a sign. The way Will Graham had looked at him, scanned his features had unleashed something ugly in him. After a clipped reply it was evident Graham found him distasteful, and Frederick had not allowed himself to feel hurt.

Instead he continued to needle Graham, driven by a mixture of anger and insecurity.

„Ah, that thing you do …“ teeth bared in shark-like grin. Graham shifted in his seat, discomfort noticeable and Frederick just could not stop himself.

„A cocktail of neuroses and personality disorders that make you a highly skilled profiler.“

Professional curiosity, he had labeled it then, and angrily: Will Graham should stop being such a sensitive fairy. He was after all a profiler of serial killers. 

When Frederick thinks of that moment now he feels shame, a feeling he thought he lost long ago. 

In every encounter Will had the moral upper hand but in their meetings at the hospital Will had also the _intellectual_ upper hand. He had manipulated and steered Frederick with such laughable ease, and Frederick had blindly fallen for every word Will had told him. Of course that still irks him.

On the other hand, he was such a fool, he can’t bring himself to feel sorry for himself. It’s not as if he didn’t deserve what happened to him.

In the end everything comes back to this one insight: He had it coming. 

He is paralyzed over the finality of this thought.

One evening he ventures out, wheeling his IV with him. Of course he has been up and around—he was able to go to the bathroom, but for a reason still unknown to the staff and to him, his stomach scar hurts worse than ever before and he can't walk long distances without a walking stick. 

No one pays attention to him and so he limps through the corridors until he stands in front of Will Graham’s room. The door is slightly ajar, and the light inside is dimmed. He can hear the TV running.

He pushes the door open, and sees a room very much like his—cream colored walls, blue sheets and covers, soft orange light from a night lamp.

Will Graham is awake, sitting in his bed.

His eyes too are hollow, like his. He stares at the TV but Frederick can tell immediately that he doesn’t see the screen.

Hannibal Lecter has murdered us all, Frederick thinks, and left only empty shells.

Slowly, as if pulled by strings, Will Graham turns to look at him. His eyes flit over his features, run over him, and Frederick feels naked, undressed in every sense.

That thing he does, he can’t help it, can he.

Instead of averting his eyes in the end though, Graham stares at him, unblinking, as if looking for something in Frederick’s face.

Any moment now Will Graham will turn away again, dismiss him. Frederick is used to being dismissed. Standing stock-still he waits, like a prisoner waiting for a verdict. 

“The door was open,” Frederick wants to say, but his voice stubbornly refuses to work. It’s as if someone has stuffed a wad of cotton down his throat. 

Graham continues to stare, his eyes filled with an emotion Frederick assumes is accusation. He had developed an emotional attachment to the Hobbs girl, Frederick remembers. Maybe Graham finds it distasteful that while she is dead, he, Frederick Chilton, is alive.

Frederick feels the urgent need to apologize. Maybe if he would have done what Graham had asked him for she would still be alive and Lecter in a prison cell. He had a part in this. If he had paid Graham's advice any heed and would have told Crawford everything, the FBI would have had a case.

Finally he only nods and closes the door, then slowly makes his way back to his room with small shuffling steps, like an old man.

 

After another minor surgery on his face and the back of his head, he is allowed to go home. The scar on his cheek looks unexpectedly neat. His head is still bandaged and he has to go to the hospital next week to have them removed but apart from that, he’s as good as new.

The scar on his face may always feel numb, the surgeons tell him, some of the nerves may never reconnect, but the skin quality will improve with time. The staff equips him with a walking stick, far less fashionable than his wooden cane but more comfortable and better suited for walking longer distances.

No one picks him up. He has not contacted his sister or his mother, the only family he has left. The details of his hospitalization have been kept secret by the FBI. He takes a cab to Quantico, to pick up his car.

Retrieving his belongings from his house is a carefully planned and executed mission.

Fifteen minutes before exiting the car and walking up to the front door he takes half a valium, just to take the edge off. He is not surprised by his emotional reaction to seeing his house, but he cannot prevent being gripped by overwhelming panic. The fear inside him is like a shrill noise filling his mind and somehow despite all his knowledge about PTSD he cant turn it off.

He enters the kitchen only once, to retrieve the keys to the garage, avoiding to look left or right. He climbs up the stairs, clutching his walking stick, heads for the wardrobe, the handle of a weekender in his sweating palms. 

The panic clawing at the back of his mind is drowning out the expectant silence of the house. He manages to pack a few belongings without breaking down but it’s a lot harder than he imagined. Just as he is about to cross the hallway to open the front door, his legs turn to jelly and he nearly falls. He notices how erratic his breathing is, and a sheen of cold sweat covers his forehead.

His heartbeat is frantic as he opens the trunk to deposit the packed weekender, and he flinches when he hears a sound behind him. Turns out, it’s just leaves on the porch, but he needs a few minutes to calm down. He checks the car like a maniac before getting back in—he has the absurd fear, Hannibal Lecter is hiding in the backseat.

Frederick sits in the car for almost half an hour before leaving. He checks into a hotel in the outskirts of Baltimore. In the past he had liked hotels of a certain kind—the expensive ones with room service and their the impersonal smell of the cool, freshly laundered linen, the panorama windows, the elegant glassware.

He checks into one of the cheapest places he can find.

He just wants to hide.

He spends the rest of the day watching TV in the room, his bag unpacked beside him.


	3. Coping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [notmyyacht](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoamooseketeer/pseuds/cocoamooseketeer) for beta-ing.
> 
> All remaining errors are mine.

The motel is unremarkable, but clean. The carpet in his room is grey, the bed dark brown. It smells faintly of bleach. 

His mother calls him but he doesn’t pick up. She leaves a voice mail. Later at night when he listens to her hoarse, accented voice he cries a bit. An hour before midnight his sister calls him too. 

“Come on, call me back,” she says, “mom is worried sick, so at least let her know you’re ok. Or whatever.”

He doesn't call back, but when she calls again two hours later, he picks up.

It’s the first time she calls him since their falling out. They used to be close as teenagers, but at some point their paths diverged. Up until he was abducted and sliced open by Abel Gideon he used to chalk it down to different life styles and views. He liked to think he had changed while his sister had refused to move on. 

He has missed his sister though and for a moment he is giddy with joy to hear her talking to him as if they had never been never distant.

Like maybe all siblings, they manage to immediately speak with each other as if they've just seen each other the day before.

She laughs, and then Frederick can’t help but smiling. He is glad someone can make him smile, although his scars hurt a little.

“Hey,” Cara says, her voice suddenly earnest, “are you okay?”

He has to swallow thickly. He blinks stupid tears away, like the child he once was.

“Don't worry about me,” he says quietly. He means it—he can't stand the thought of his sister and his mother worrying.

Then, “You want me to call mom, right?” 

“Yeah,“ Cara says, „I mean I know you’re going through a rough time, but … don’t let it out on her.”

“Okay,” Frederick nods, “I just need some time for myself.”

“That’s alright,” Cara says, “You take your time and work out what you want. Just call mom. At least once.”

He smiles.

“Okay, I promise,” he says.

“You also promise to take care of yourself?”

“I’m okay,” he assures her.

“What about you?” he tries to distract her, “what are you up to?”

“I’m good,” she says, exhaling, “insanely busy with my new job, but I’ll tell you more when we see each other.”

“Are you still living with …. er …. James?”

“Georg,” Cara corrects him, “Georg. You met him. Twice. We sent you a Christmas card two years ago. And you still don’t remember his name? How hard can it be?”

They continue to banter like this for a while.

After he has hung up, Frederick feels restless. It’s been a long time since Cara and he had talked and now his childhood memories surface.

He gets into his car and drives around aimlessly. Briefly, when he catches his eyes in the rear mirror he thinks of Will Graham. He wonders what Will Graham would see in them now. He wonders about the last time they met—the way Graham looked at him and through him, probably analyzed his emotional state with surgical precision. Assessed him and found him wanting.

He eats a fish sandwich in a chain restaurant, then gargles with listerine he buys at the CVS in a toilet. He lingers a little, hands on the sink, shoulders bent, wondering idly if this restroom is a cruising spot. It wouldn’t be a surprise but he doesn’t stay to find out.

After ten minutes his mood is set, and he lets himself fill with the urge to fuck, just to get his head cleared, just so he doesn’t have to _think_. 

There is a gay bar in the city center; small, tucked away in a small side street. 

During the last year of high school and college he had been out—more or less. He had dated a few guys. He and Cara had been to Gay Pride together which had been fun then.

After he graduated, he went back into the closet—it wasn’t really a conscious decision but it happened slowly over time. In hindsight he knows he went back because he just wanted to go the path of the least resistance. He had enough struggles at work and he had to fight with tooth and claws to get promoted. He had to be ruthless and tireless to progress and he had no fight in him left when it came to his private life. 

Now and then he’d slip away and have his cock sucked in the dark by some nameless, faceless stranger. Of course he knew his life wasn’t exactly healthy but he didn't think he had any many choices.

All of this is behind him now. No need to be shy about his preferences any longer. 

With that in mind he enters the place and sits directly at the bar, hiding from no one.

A few guys look him up and down, and after only a few minutes, the first one hits on him. He is a bit larger than Frederick, not good looking but not ugly either—just a regular guy. They get on well enough and soon Frederick sucks his cock in the crammed space of the man’s car, while fucking his hole with his middle finger.

The man smells clean, of too much shower gel and soap and cologne. Frederick notes he has a nice, deep voice with which he heaps praise onto his deep-throating skills. 

Despite the fact that this man is a complete stranger he swallows the load he shoots, then jerks himself off. He welcomes the seconds of emptiness in his mind as his orgasm rushes through him. 

The man kindly offers him baby wipes, and Frederick leaves the car, his hands smelling of calendula oil and soap and his lips swollen, his heart still slightly pumping. 

Engaging in anonymous sex is a coping mechanism of course. During Will Graham’s imprisonment in the hospital, Frederick had sought out sexual encounters with strangers, just to relieve the tension. Twice after the intense but lastly unsatisfying therapy sessions with Graham he drove around, looking for places where he could get someone to fuck him. At some point his desperation and neediness had reached the point where he contemplated to just stand in a public restroom, his trousers pulled down, offering his ass to anyone who’d fuck him. Thank God, he kept his head and instead went to a gay club, had a few drinks with the men he picked up, then booked himself into a hotel room.

Every time after such an encounter, panic and remorse gripped him and he had himself tested. So far he’s been lucky.

Back in his motel room he discards the scrap of paper with the man’s phone number, and after a shower finally calls his mother.


	4. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my beta [notmyyacht](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoamooseketeer/pseuds/cocoamooseketeer)! All remaining errors are mine!

He sends a polite resignation e-mail to the hospital. His phone rings half an hour later, but Frederick doesn't answer. He knows they’re really glad to be rid of him. Besides, he can’t just put himself through this conversation yet—all this pretense of “sorry to hear you’re not staying with us” and “is there anything we can do to sway your mind” and “we’re all wishing you the best of luck” and listening to himself assuring them that he had a “great time at the BSHCI”.

He is so done with the lying, so tired. 

He stays in his room, watching hockey and nature documentaries, not trusting his own mood. He feels indifferent, although he thinks he should be worried. The job at the BSHCI paid a great salary and he has gotten used to a certain standard of living.

Looking around he laughs at his own thoughts. 

“A certain standard of living!” he mocks himself loudly, and laughs again, hysterically, although he is not sure where the joke is in that. 

Dr. Frederick Chilton, Director of the Baltimore Hospital  for The Criminally Insane, owner of a wine red vintage Porsche Cabrio, owner of a $850.000 home in Howard County, sitting in a motel room on a stained couch in front of the blaring TV.

Ah, yes, life.

When Frederick was very little, he and his family lived in a big house with a swimming pool. He still has brief disconnected memories of it, the chlorine smell, the large potted palm trees in the garden, the glass tables, the striped sun roof, the smell of wet concrete and the tanning oil his father used.

He remembers that pool more he does his father.

They had a housekeeper, and Frederick remembers her too. She used to smell of lemon verbena. He really liked that smell of her.

Curiously he doesn’t remember the drama of his parents’ divorce, only the sudden change of life style. 

(For a long time he assumed Cara didn’t remember either, but one night when they got drunk together on peach schnapps, it turned out she did. She cried into his leather jacket and he understood with an overwhelming clarity that all his life she had protected him; she just always put on a brave face, but the pain of their parents’ separation had shattered something in her. There was something he would never be able to relate to. There was a part of his older sister he would never know. It was disconcerting to him.)

The things he does remember: He remembers living in tiny, cramped apartments, moving from place to place. He remembers how so many things he took for granted, were taken away, one by one. He remembers resenting and fearing his mother for transforming from a cheerful beauty in silk dresses into a haggard, exhausted looking woman. He remembers sitting in plastic chairs lining corridors of dingy offices and waiting rooms, waiting for his mom to submit applications for handouts. 

As a young woman his mother used to be a gentle soul who constantly apologized, even when she knocked at the door to his room to bring him a cup of tea.

It irritated him as a teenager. Her weakness had cost them their lifestyle. The father who had married the housekeeper, twenty-seven years younger than him, left them with barely anything. Her parents, his grandparents, lived in Cuba and could not help their only daughter. During her marriage she had never learnt proper English, always relying on her husband, and now he and Cara had to share a room, had to live in a small, dingy house and take the bus to school.

(One time, when he was twelve or thirteen, he yelled at her for a reason he can’t even remember. It was something about their father and her letting him walk over her. Soap opera drama, with his mom shrinking back against the wall.  
   
„Why can’t you grow a spine!“ he screamed at her. He still cringes when he remembers his own, self-important voice.  
   
Not his proudest moment. Cara came out of her room and backhanded him. His ears rang and he nearly lost his footing. He was so shocked, he just stumbled into his room, but then Cara followed him and forced him to apologize to their mother.)

Cara got a job when she was sixteen, at a travel agency. She worked hard, long hours. When Frederick suggested he’d get a job too she threatened to kick him out. She worked so he could go to uni. Mother worked overtime as a cleaner in a shoe store. The small amount of money they managed to save was so Frederick could finish his education, no matter what.

When Frederick graduated from uni and got his first job, he moved his mother out of the old house and rented her an apartment in the city, closer to his and Cara’s work places. He almost bought a house where he could live with them but in the last minute he held himself back—out of sheer vanity. Who wants to be the guy who still lives with his mother?

Instead he rented a “studio” in the city centre; an outrageously expensive, glorified shit hole of an apartment, but the address sounded impressive. It looked impressive on his business cards. 

When he got promoted he moved into a penthouse with a nice view and finally, when he secured the administrator job at the BSHCI, he bought the house. That was only a few years ago. He invested considerable energy into furnishing the house. He had expensive marble from godknowswhere shipped for his bathroom. 

He needed that house then, as a proof for something, but now he can’t remember exactly what for. Maybe it was the first time something could not be taken away from him. Maybe he needed that feeling of achievement? 

Who knows. 

He kept the house empty and blank because he always harboured uncertain plans of filling it with things representing him … adequately. For that undertaking he needed time, he didn’t have and so he left his walls bare. He never felt he was quite finished becoming the man he wanted to become.

He doesn’t need it any longer. He doesn’t want that house. He never liked it really anyway. 

The real estate agent presses him to allow the agency to disclose the recent story of the house to potential buyers beyond the point of them asking. Per law they are required to tell buyers the truth anyway, but the real estate agency turns the murders into a USP.

“A certain demographic might find all this appealing,” they say, „if you’re looking to convert your assets into cash, you might capitalize on that.“

Chilton approves the first people who apply to buy that house, no questions asked, too glad to be done with it. A million is pretty overpriced for a house even in Howard County, but then they might appreciate the “history” of the property.

(“It’s very _American Horror Story_ ,” his agent says with an impossibly wide smile.)

He sells his car too, for a ridiculous 70,000 dollars although it’s fairly new and has less than 10,000 miles on it, but the truth is, he can’t stand to look at this car either. Or maybe he can’t stand to be reminded of the man who purchased the vehicle, for all the wrong, terribly transparent reasons.

He buys a used grey Honda Accord for less than 3,000 dollars. 

Freddie Lounds calls him. First he blocks her number. She calls from a different mobile, leaving long messages. She would like to write about survival, about a survivor, she says, then unsubtly tries to bond with him. 

“We are both survivors, and it would help me to come to terms with my own survival, my own nightmare,” is one of the terrible, tasteless things she says. Lounds might be a capable bloodhound but her methods of emotional manipulation remain heavy-handed. He knows at some point he’ll speak to her though—he can't deny being curious to what she is up to. 

Only when Cara calls he picks up. She doesn't bring up his _misfortunes_ , only speaks about family and her job, things that distract him. He finds himself calling her twice in a week, which is more often than he had called her in the last three years.

He lies to her. He tells her he is looking for other positions, even though the only thing he is currently looking for are re-runs of _Friends_ and _Master Chef_ episodes.

He lies to her about his loneliness. He doesn’t tell her outright lies, because he knows she’d be able to tell … but he doesn’t tell her how he thinks a lot about how alone he is, has been for years, and how it bothers him. It hasn’t bothered him, but now it does, and it unsettles him. 

So he lies by omission, a technique he’s always been very good at.

Also, isn’t it strange, how he used to surround himself with people in the past, not even truly noticing them, but now that he feels the need for human company he can’t stand seeing any of his friends or colleagues? 

He can’t bear her having to worry about him, and she would. She is probably, apart from his mother, the only person in the world who worries about him.

He chats about inconsequential things, about TV shows and movies and news and the weather and hot guys he has seen, drops hints at a social life he doesn’t have, refers to busy „Friday nights“ (he spends them like all the other nights, in front of the TV on his couch).

Until one day she calls him on a sunny Friday morning.

“Where the fuck are you?” she asks without even a “hello”.

“What’s the matter? Did something happen? Is it mom?” 

Disoriented he moves to get up and nearly falls onto the floor—apparently he fell asleep on the couch (again). He is still wearing yesterday’s clothes, a wrinkled t-shirt, dark sweat pants.

“Answer. The. Question.”

That’s when he knows he is in trouble. He presses the palm of his left hand onto his dully throbbing scar, to relieve the pain.

“At the Roadway Inn,” he admits, switching off the breakfast TV.

She hangs up, and he just sits there staring into the void for five minutes. Finally he takes a shower, using the rest of his Dior Homme Shower gel. At least he can smell expensive while sitting on his bum and watching TV he figures.

The toast bread he got a few days ago is moldy so he has only a spoon of peanut butter and Pringles for breakfast. When he is brushing his teeth, his sister knocks at the door.

“Hi,” he says, while he opens the door. She walks past him and into the middle of the admittedly tiny room turns around. 

“You’re staying in this dump?” she asks him incredulously.

He rinses his mouth, then nods.

She shakes her head. 

“Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know. It was the first place I drove by and I was too lazy to look for something else.”

Cara looks at the empty plastic trays of food, the dirty beer bottle, the TV, and seems on the verge of screaming at him. Surprisingly, she calms down.

„I didn’t want to worry you,“ he adds lamely.

„How did you find me?“

„I drove past your house to check on you,“ she says, her eyes still wandering over the room.

“Okay,” she says then, as if she is debating something with herself, “okay. I want to understand this.”

She looks at him, studies his face so intently he averts his eyes, slightly ashamed for his appearance: the sweatpants, the worn t-shirt, his stubble. She looks at his walking stick, then looks away.

“Come to my place,” she says in a completely different voice, “I get that … I heard of what … happened to you. And I know we never really talked about it, because I thought maybe that’s what you want. Bottle shit up until you’re ready. You know. But maybe you never talked about it, because you thought I wouldn’t want to hear, or I wouldn’t understand."

She takes a deep breath. "I don’t know if I can help but I want to be here for you.”

When Frederick doesn’t say anything, she continues, caution in her face.

“I know it was shitty. I shouldn’t have held on my grudges for so long. When mom and I saw the news about you being shot, it sounded first as if you were dead, and we both cried, and …” she raises her hands. 

She presses her fist against her forehead, a gesture she uses to hold back tears. He knows this gesture since they were little. She never cries. She only ever presses her fist against her forehead like this, and then somehow manages to go on.

“You lied because you can’t trust me,” she finally says, her voice rough.

Now Frederick can move again. He steps closer to Cara.

“I just needed to be at a place that isn’t my house,” he says, “I can’t go back in there. And I didn’t want to check into the Ambassador Hotel; you know they would have recognized me.”

“So, you’re hiding,” Cara states.

“No. I am not hiding,” Frederick argues.

Cara raises her eyebrow.

“Maybe a little.”

Cara embraces him. He is somehow completely unprepared for her attack, and flinches, but she holds on, doesn’t let go. He melts into her touch, inhales her familiar perfume and he fights back his tears, as he remembers how good that feels. To be embraced by a person who loves him. 

“We must never fight like this again,” she mumbles into his chest, “we must never be that mad at each other. I promise.”

“I dated your best friend,” he says, “I know I deserve your anger.”

“Well, you faked dating her,” she says, “You were not into her. You’re gay for fuck’s sake, and just because you wanted to appear straight, you lied to my friend.”

“Yes, but in all fairness—you told her, and she poured a bottle of red wine over my head,” Frederick reminds her.

“Yeah,” Cara says, “good on her. That was actually great.”

They hug some more, and then they sit on the couch. Cara wrinkles her nose.

“That couch smells of sweat—.”

Frederick crosses his arms over his chest and glares at her.

“At least move into a different place, if you don’t want to stay at my place.”

Just too soothe her he agrees. Something else occurs to him.

“Don’t tell mom, “ he says.

Cara shrugs.  
   
“She’d worry, so no, I won’t.”

For a while they are silent. 

“Do you want a glass of water?” Frederick asks her just to end the long stretch of silence.

“Talk to me,” she says, “I know I’ve been a horrible sister, but now I’m here. And … just talk to me, okay?”

“I can’t go back to my old job,” he says, getting himself a glass of water, “because I have always hated it. After I woke up in the hospital, I thought I never want to waste my life like this again but I have to figure out what do now.”

“Any ideas so far?” Cara asks.

Frederick shrugs.

“Not yet. I’ve been so busy before, I have no idea who the real me is anymore. I try to go back to a time where I felt… real.”

Frederick realizes this was maybe in his last summer in high school—the last time he did things just because he wanted to do them—got drunk at a party, spent days on the beach, kissed a boy and fell in love. After that summer his long cycle of hypocrisy, false pretense and building of walls began.

Cara doesn’t overwhelm him with questions, advice and suggestions. Instead she stays and watches TV with him, her head on his shoulder, her hand holding his.

“It’s going to be okay,” she softly says at one point.

Frederick doesn’t reply, but he squeezes her shoulder.


	5. The Kingsmen Bar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks [notmyyacht](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoamooseketeer/pseuds/cocoamooseketeer) for beta-ing this!

It takes him several hours to get up, get dressed and check himself out of the Roadside Inn. Every little thing he does, like brushing his teeth, picking a coat, finding his shoes, then searching his wallet for his cards take him an eternity and exhaust him endlessly. He usually talks a lot but now it's impossible to muster the energy to open his mouth to conduct small-talk, not that the pimply boy at the reception asks for it.

He has forgotten where he has parked his car, walks around in a daze for a few minutes. His scar hurts, every time he breathes in too deeply and he has to rely on his hated walking stick again. The facial scar pulses weirdly at times, and then feels as if a cold 10 cent piece is stuck on his cheek. All that torn tissue growing together. He realizes he can't bear to be outside too long. After five minutes of walking he feels watched, followed. It's as if Lecter is only a few steps behind him, and with every moment where he can't find the damned car passing his panic increases.

When he finally finds the car, he needs to sit there for a few minutes, just to calm down again. He takes a valium, grips the steering wheel with both hands.

Around two in the afternoon he checks himself into a small serviced apartment, which is closer to the city center. It's a bit more expensive, looks better maintained, a faceless accommodation for business people. 

He replies to a few e-mails, and as a reward, buys himself one of these fancy vegetarian microwave dinners at the supermarket around the corner. He’s living the life apparently.

He chats with Cara on the phone while doing his shopping, joking around with her, the way they did as teenagers and she forces him to agree to meet her for drinks in the Mango bar.

The Mango is a gay bar but one frequented by a very mainstream, very mixed crowd. When he was younger and more timid Frederick used to go there, and then emboldened by alcohol or other substances move on to the considerably more explicit (men-only) Kingsmen which was only a few blocks away. Often he’d have sex in the Kingsmen dark room, then return to the Mango. A lot of guys did that actually. Only a few hardcore guys, some of them dressed in leather would hang out at the Kingsmen bar the entire night, checking out everyone who entered. 

Cara used to loved the stylish Mango with its discreet 1940s vintage decor, and they often had their best nights there.

He knows of course what Cara intends but pretends not to. Invoke good memories, get him drunk, then set him up with a guy she thinks is good for him. It galls him a bit she thinks him so predictable, but he decides to go with it.

He showers, shaves, puts on cologne, picks his outfit with a care still light years from the narcissism which defined his old self, but it’s better than his current daily combo of sweat pants and t-shirt. He even combs his eyebrows, and dabs transparent mascara to them and his lashes. He has already left the apartment, when he goes back, scolding himself for being a cock-steered idiot, to pocket a small sachet of lube and a few condoms.

“You pathetic slut,” he mumbles to himself, then chuckles.

Recently he has taken the habit of talking to himself, delivering a sort of running ironic commentary for his actions. As a psychiatrist, he knows this doesn’t bode well for his sanity. He is probably quite lost, but the perceived distance to himself which his own voice creates, grounds him. At least the idea is that in all this sad chaos his life has become, there remains at least the illusion of control.

His intense insecurity and craving for control were his downfall, he reminds himself (also aloud) in his car as he is driving to meet Cara.

Upon arrival he notes the bar has undergone changes. The clientele is younger than he remembers, more boisterous. A lot of the guys wear beards, (designer) plaid shirts, vintage glasses, expensive dark denims. The music is a little too loud for his liking. 

His sister is waiting at the bar, chatting with the bar tender. She sees him immediately and waves.   
   
The evening is actually nice. She seems determined to cheer him up, and he indulges her. He only gets a little annoyed when she engages a passing young guy in a conversation, then invites him to sit with them at a table. The young man, whose name is Gabriel, but insists on being called „Gabi“, sits opposite Frederick and does start to flirt with him, while still being pleasant and charming towards Cara. When Cara sees that her little ploy works, she feigns exhaustion and too much to drink and leaves. 

Or rather tries to, because the moment she gets up, Frederick gets up too, grips her arm and marches her away from the table where they can hiss in peace at each other, just like in old times.

“I can’t believe you’re really doing that,” he begins, “we’re not in high school any longer.”

“What? I’m tired, and you have company.” She looks at him with large innocent green eyes.

“You suck,” Frederick mimes slapping her head, and she laughs.

“You love me, admit it,” she whispers, then winks at him, “look at this guy. He’s cute. And he suffered through an hour of me talking to him. He must be gagging for it by now.”

“I should wash out your mouth with soap!” 

Cara laughs again, then swiftly pushes her hand into his right jean pocket.

“What the—?”

“Ha! I knew it! You’re a big fucking hypocrite!” Triumphantly she holds his condoms and the lube up. God, she really _does_ know him. Frederick, rolling his eyes, snatches the items out of her hand, and stuffs them hastily into the back pocket of his jeans.

“You’ll pay for that,” he hisses at her, but she is already on her way out, still laughing.

Frederick ends up having a nice chat with Gabi but that’s it. He asks about the walking stick and Frederick makes up a car accident. After an hour or so he takes Gabi’s phone number and promises to call but already knows he is not interested in a personal acquaintance. 

After Gabi has left, Frederick walks out of the Mango with the initial intention to go back to his place. He has his car keys already in his hand, when a SUV passes, illuminating the entrance of Kingsmen. A man is standing in front of the entrance, wearing a dark green jacket and dark denims. He has dark, slightly messy curls. Frederick can’t see his face, but he looks vaguely familiar.

Well, he tells himself, he’s already here. He might as well have a quick look. Pocketing his car keys he crosses the street, passes the security guys who only nod a greeting.

Upon entering the bar he immediately is assaulted with too loud house music blaring out of cheap speakers.

In the half-light of the bar the guy is pretty good looking, large doe eyes framed with long, curved lashes and red lips. He doesn’t hesitate to hit on Frederick, the moment he approaches the bar, and after a few minutes of forced conversation he pulls him towards the Kingsmen’s toilets. 

The other guy, who mumbles his names so quickly, Frederick can’t catch it—something like „Albert“ or „Andrew“—sinks to his knees, as soon as Frederick locks the toilet stall, and tugs at Frederick’s trousers, deftly opening his zip.

It would be insincere not to admit to himself how much Albert (or Andrew) reminds him of Will Graham. The same skin tone, the same curls, the dark-red lips. Similar large, beautiful eyes, only that he is at least ten years younger and objectively speaking, far better dressed and groomed. 

The young Graham lookalike moans around Frederick’s cock, and Frederick can’t help but indulge himself with a graphic fantasy. Even the voice is similar, albeit a little higher. 

„I’m coming,“ Frederick tells him, and the man sucks harder, hollowing his cheeks, as if he wants to suck the cum out of his hard cock. With his other hand he strokes himself furiously.

The intensity of Frederick’s orgasm takes him by surprise. When he closes his eyes, he can see Graham’s face before him, his pretty eyes half-open, lips wrapped around his cock. He bites the back of his hand to suppress his moans. The other guy comes too, judging from his loud, shameless noises.

When Frederick comes down from his high, he leans back at the wall, trying to get his breath back. Albert/Andrew grins up at him, flattered by Frederick’s strong reaction. That toothy grin destroys the illusion and Frederick averts his gaze.

He leaves the toilet first, but when the other guy joins him at the bar, he does buy him a drink and lets himself get involved in a bit of chitchat and friendly banter. There is an awkward moment when Albert/Andrew tells him that he has no plans for the night and looks at him expectantly, licking his lips, and Frederick only nods sagely and wishes him a good night. Albert/Andrew gets the hint and moves away from him. He’s not alone very long though because almost instantly someone else chats him up.

Most of the guys here are young, like the crowd at the Mango bar. A fair part of the crowd look like art and fashion students. Frederick feels out of place. What happened? Just yesterday he used to be one of the sexy, young twinks himself and now he is the creepy looking uncle with a fucking walking stick. 

Ruefully, he shakes his head.

Time to go home.


	6. The Book Launch

Only three months later after Lecter has fled Baltimore Freddie Lounds’ invitation to her book launch arrives. When Frederick signed the release agreement (in exchange for a generous sum) he had assumed that book would need at least six months to be completed but patience had never been Freddie Lounds' forte. She did explain to him, that she had a lot of material collected beforehand, interviews and talks with Will Graham, notes about Abel Gideon, interviews with Abigail Hobbs so he shouldn't be too surprised he guesses.

It’s a bold move to publish a book about Lecter without him being caught yet, but who knows what kind of deal with the FBI and the publisher Freddie has. He is almost hundred percent sure that some of the information provided in her book is deliberately false to lure him out or to provoke him. This book likely contains all the false conspiration theories she has gathered in the past few months, all the fake but adventurous trails. A whole chapter is dedicated to Lecter’s Lithuanian roots and a theory that sees Lecter hiding somewhere in his home country. 

He can see her rationale though—once he’ll be caught, she'll be able to publish _another_ book about him. She is just establishing herself as the main Hannibal Lecter writer.  
   
The graphic design of the invite is visually appealing, but also lurid—all in American Typewriter font with smeared ink dots, the mark of a coffee mug, and in the corner, a photograph of one of Lecter’s pretentious dinner invitations. The graphic designer has adorned the invite with bloodied finger prints, tasteless but tasteless is Freddie Lounds’ brand.

The back of the invite shows a black and white photo of Freddie Lounds. On the picture she wears her curly hair pulled back into a bun and her eyes look impossibly large. Next to her image is the picture of the cover of the book, with a picture of Hannibal Lecter in a tuxedo. The picture has been tweaked to make him look even more sinister. 

Although he hates himself for it, he decides to go. He wants to go. He makes up a few lame excuses, him not being able to pass an opportunity like this to flaunt his old, narcissistic self. He tells Cara that he’ll go because for some reason she still cares about him. To know he is going out and seeing people will put her to ease.

He used to like to wear three piece suits and bold neckties, but tonight he goes for a black suit and a modest looking dark tie. Unfortunately, he still has to use the walking stick. 

The book launch is in the Ambassador Dining Room, a vegetarian or vegan restaurant. Fitting, in a way. Who wants to eat meat after reading a book about a cannibalistic serial killer?

Frederick is greeted almost instantly by Freddie Lounds. She has a similar hair style to the one she has on the picture on the book and wears make-up that looks as if it had been applied by a professional.

„Good to see you, Frederick,“ she says in her deceptively warm tone, smiling.

He can’t help the memory flashing before his eye, her pale face looking down at him while she was feeding him the oxygen. Frederick had never been someone gifted with intuition but even he could see the moment she was calculating to let him die, just to give her story a better edge. She could have claimed he died mid-surgery.

He bestows a clipped smile on her.

„How have you been?“ she inquires.

He invents a few half-hearted lies through which she immediately sees—after all she’s a journalist. She can tell lies, but mercifully she has no time for lengthy conversations and just presses his hand then hurries on to the next person greeting her.

There are a few people Frederick recognizes and greets, but he doesn’t walk over to talk to them, the way he would have done in the past. 

He wonders briefly if he comes across as rude but then, everyone can see how he is limping around on a walking stick, so he can afford to sit down at a table and not go out of his way to converse with people who detest him.

It comes with a bit of a shock to Frederick, that people do weave through the crowd to talk to him, some of them pretending not to have treated him like scum for the past years. Others again, who are not bold enough for that approach, introduce themselves—“Hi, we never had the chance to speak much in the past but I just wanted to introduce myself…”

You have not spoken to me in the past because you thought you’re above me, Frederick thinks snidely, but manages to nod. He does not however waste his energy in being friendly or smiling, and after a few awkward moments people leave him again.

He’s already tired and yet wary. He had a valium before coming here but he still feels anxiety at the edge of his mind. 

There is a lot of press, which Lounds handles competently. Even from afar Frederick can see the satisfaction in her eyes. He remembers something she once said—something about not being respected in the journalistic community, being resented—and now they’re all here, the photographers and reporters from all the news publications who used to reject her. Reuters, APA, NYT… and they all greet her like an old friend, as if she is, always has been, one of them.

Good for her, he thinks. At least someone else who rises from this disaster like a phoenix. 

Maybe in a way they’re similar, except Lounds is undeniably good in what she does.

She introduces him to her publisher, to her editor, to the woman who has designed the book cover and a whole host of people. After everyone is seated, Frederick realizes that the spot beside him at his table is empty.

He wonders if she invited Will Graham. He wouldn’t put it past her. Did she really think he would come? He would dislike everything about it: the venue, the book, the invite. Why would he attend her book launch? He probably doesn’t even approve of that book.

“Will,” she says, rising from her seat, a brilliant smile on her lips, looking at someone behind him. Frederick turns around. 

Will Graham is dressed in an immaculate looking black suit, his hair neatly combed and styled, looking years younger as he is clean-shaven. He moves with the confidence and carelessness of someone who knows he is attractive.

He is intimidatingly beautiful. 

Will Graham shakes her outstretched hand, and this gesture seems to hold meaning as she looks at him with wide eyes. She looks startled almost, as if she had not expected him to greet her back. (In all honesty Frederick is surprised by Will’s nearly friendly, social demeanor too.) He even steps closer to her, pulls her towards him, and gives her a polite embrace. It’s an odd scene, and Frederick’s curiosity is peaked. When she pulls away from him, he suddenly grips her arm and pulls her close again, this time whispering something into her ear. She frowns, trying to interrupt him, but he doesn’t let her. He smiles at her, as brilliantly as she does, with a toothy smile as cold and mirthless as hers.

Whatever Will Graham whispered in Freddie’s ear it wasn’t pleasant, but she gathers herself. 

Graham steps towards the table and seems to realize that the only empty spot is beside Frederick. His eyes dart around. After a short hesitant pause Will Graham sits down, and—smiles at him too, but it is a completely different smile than he gave Lounds—shy, a little twitchy. No teeth, but Frederick notices Will has dimples when he smiles.

 _Adorable,_ his inner voice supplies readily, _charming, sweet, pure, innocent._

 _Shut up,_ Frederick tells his inner voice.

"Frederick," Will says and nods, as a way of greeting.

He looks away.

Someone to his side addresses Will, and he turns to the person on the other side and answers whatever question they asked him.

Frederick can’t say he isn't relieved. He has no idea how to talk to Will Graham. 

( _I can’t even look him in the eye._ )

When Lounds holds her speech about the book, he turns his back to Graham, who is feigning interest in her speech. Various people get up and applaud. Frederick has no idea who they are. Editors, fellow journalists, publishers perhaps.

Then Lounds’ tone changes and she turns to her own table and Frederick realizes she is talking about the night he lost his kidney. He shouldn’t be surprised. Of course there was a reason for her to invite him. 

He can hear words out of context like “courage” … “tragedy” … "false accusations" ... “nearly died” … Confused he looks away, suddenly deeply uncomfortable how the entire room looks at him. When a slow wave of applause rolls through the restaurant someone takes his arm and helps him to stand. 

He can’t say what has him so unsettled. He used to love attention. Now he has no idea why these people keep applauding him and he only wishes they would stop.

 _All I did really was to fall into one stupid trap after the other,_ he thinks suddenly, slightly alarmed by the acidic voice of his own thought.   _I am the comic relief of this whole case._

Lounds, standing a bit further away, is still giving him this fake, tearful look, pretending to be overwhelmed by her emotions. Her arm is extended towards him, as if she expects him to make his way across the room, to hobble on his walking stick towards her and join her.

 _Why did I even come here?_ he thinks bewildered. He can't remember how he could ever talk himself into attending this horrible event.

He sits down again.

Apparently this was the wrong thing to do, since an awkward silence descends upon the room. From the side he can feel Will Graham look at him.

He refuses to look at anyone and simply looks down at his empty plate. 

After a while he can hear Lounds speak again. Her voice sounds from far away and he uses it like a life line to maneuver himself back to reality. 

Finally, she finishes her speech. Everyone stands up and applauds. Frederick automatically rises with them. He smiles and can feel the scar on his face.

He looks at Will Graham, who rises too, but far slower and with an unreadable expression in his eyes. There is a wry smile on his lips, and Frederick can nearly feel his disdain for everything that Freddie Lounds incorporates, but also that hesitant respect for her tenacity. 

After all they have been through, the least they can do is to respect the ability to survive Lecter.

For a very brief, flitting moment he is filled by an intense jealousy at Freddie Lounds for Will Graham respecting her. He might dislike her, but he still respects her.

What do people feel for someone like him, impostor and fraud that he is, always trying to fit in, being cut open, figuratively and literally and… being exposed, turned into a joke. Nothing but pity and scorn he imagines.

He should have died. Maybe if he would have died he would have been regarded more kindly by people. Maybe Will Graham would have felt something akin to regret. 

_Unlikely._

While Lounds is making her way back to her table, people are constantly congratulating her, talking to her, wanting her attention. Graham looks at her, then turns to the woman on his right, who asks him about something. The easy way he interacts with her makes it hard to believe, that he is introverted and shy. He appears pleasant, and something about that irks Frederick.

It just seems a little strange how someone as fragile as Will Graham is, who survives such traumatic events like the death of people close to him, comes out of this nightmare … unscathed. As if the nightmare of the past months just rolled off his shoulders. Given Will Graham's disposition for emotional vulnerability this shouldn’t be possible.

When Will Graham feels him staring, he turns around, smiles at him. Frederick averts his gaze.

Now might be a good opportunity to leave. People are moving between tables, schmoozing, greeting each other, shaking hands. In the back he can see the rows of waiters waiting for the cue to begin their work.

He stares longingly at the exit far away from the table, on the other side of the room.

Can he leave before the actual dinner? He can always text Lounds later, congratulate her book and feign some sort of emergency, although she knows probably he doesn’t even have a job at the moment.

Someone leans towards him and asks, “So what are you doing these days, Dr. Chilton?”

“I am unemployed and spend my days online shopping,” the words are out of his mouth, before he can even think.

The man before him—Frederick doesn’t recognize him—stares at him open-mouthed, his eyes narrowed but then decides to take it as a joke and fakes a laugh.

„You’re doing life right, Dr. Chilton,“ someone else says. More laughter.

“I’ll take that job!" someone else pipes in, and thankfully the conversation carries on without him. He excuses himself and leaves the table.

Obviously he can’t trust himself in polite company. 

 _I am unemployed and spend my days online shopping,_ his internal voice mocks him. What was he even trying to do, alienating people he doesn’t even know.

_You used to be good with people._

His internal voice is relentless.

 _Being glib and smarmy is not being good with people,_ Frederick retorts scornfully. _Being a lie, living a lie, does not equate being good with people._

He pushes the heavy doors open and lets the cool night air fill his lungs and clear his mind. Autumn is around the corner, and the smell of dry leaves permeates the humidity of the late summer days. 

“Frederick,” someone says behind him.

“I am alright,” he says without bothering to look. He just wants to be left alone. He realizes that for an insane moment he had thought he would enjoy this evening. He would enjoy the excitement, the drinks, the buzz and he would enjoy being his old self, slipping into his old skin for a moment. For a moment, he had thought he could wear a mask and no one would notice the difference.

All it did was further distance him from his past but as much as he despises the man he used to be—not knowing who else he _could_ be is terrifying. What lies ahead of him? What kind of future does someone like him have? How could he end up feeling so lost, so aimless?

 _Home,_ he thinks, then grimaces at the thought of his faceless serviced apartment. 

Some people have homes, he has temporary accommodations.

He straightens up, gripping his walking stick to walk back to the car, mentally calculating how much he had to drink—

“Frederick.”

At the sound of his name he turns around, surprised and a bit annoyed.

It’s Will Graham. 

Frederick hides his surprise quickly.

“The dinner hasn’t even started,” Graham says.

“I can’t eat meat,” Frederick automatically says, his usual excuse these days when people invite him to events.

“It’s a vegan restaurant,” Graham points out, his hands in his pockets. 

“I tire easily these days,” Frederick says, continuing his way to his car.

Something occurs to him.

“What did you say to Freddie Lounds?”

"I reminded her about a promise she gave me,” Graham answers, “I sensed she was going to break it, forget she even gave it.”

Frederick nods. That sounds like Lounds—giving promises she doesn’t intend to keep.  
   
“This is why you came today,” he says. He doesn’t want to pry. He has to balance his walking stick, while fumbling for his keys. 

“What happened to your car?” Graham asks. Confused Frederick looks up, just to see Graham’s expression of disbelief and amusement.

“This is my car,” Frederick replies icily.

Will Graham doesn’t have anything to say to that apparently, just stares blankly at the Honda.

“Give Ms. Lounds my best then,” Frederick just says.

 

Freddie Lounds calls him a few days after her launch, all fake concern. To distract her he asks her about the book launch, about that goddamn book while lowering the sound of the TV.

She is of course happy to talk about her book. She thinks someone might option it. Apparently some studio people from Hollywood were at that book launch.

“Imagine me being played by… Scarlett Johansson,” she enthuses.

When he is ready to hang up, she zeroes in.

“So, as you may have noticed Will Graham was there, too,” she states the obvious.

“He sat beside me so, yes, I somehow did manage to notice. What about it?”

She is silent for a while, which is very strange.

“I just didn’t think he would come,” she says, “that he would publicly greet me so… intimately. Like an old friend.”

Why on earth is she discussing Will Graham with him? 

“Wasn’t it interesting how well dressed he was? He really looks very nice in a tuxedo,” her voice is low, “not all that bad.”

Frederick rolls his eyes.

"He asked about you."

"I see," Frederick mutes the TV, "what did he want to know? Why did he not ask me myself?"

"Maybe because you were gone before the dinner even started?"

"Good point."

Frederick can hear Lounds taking a sip of a drink, then putting the glass back on the table.

"He asked, what you were doing these days," she says, "he wanted to know what your plans are. For your future. According to Mark, you told him you’re unemployed and—"

"Alright, I remember what I said, no need to repeat it,“ Frederick says quickly.

"He also asked where you’re living."

"You told him?" Frederick sits up.

"I do have your address, I sent you the invitation to the book launch. Why shouldn’t I?“

"You could have _asked_ me before,“ Frederick grumbles.

"You knew Graham’s address,“ Lounds points out. 

"Why are you telling me?“ Frederick plays with his remote control by rapidly changing the channels.

"Thought it’s interesting. Thought you’d like to know.“

"I don’t really care about Will Graham,“ Frederick says, then adds, “I have to go now.”


	7. Chance Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [notmyyacht](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoamooseketeer/pseuds/cocoamooseketeer) for beta-ing! All remaining errors are mine!

He doesn’t give the conversation too much thought—journalists like Freddie Lounds are eternally filled with gossipy curiosity, always throwing sentences around in a way to provoke information. She probably wants to know if there is a relationship between Will Graham, former murder suspect and Frederick Chilton, former administrator of the very institution that jailed Graham, anything she can use. (And former murder suspect).

He is a little more concerned about his own emotional reactions, his discomfort. 

He doesn’t go out the following day. Or the day after that. He stays in on the weekend too. That book launch event has drained him of all social energy. He invents a lame excuse when Cara wants to meet. The only time he puts on presentable clothes is when he goes and visits his mom, by now a weekly event. It gets harder and harder to find them in his growing pile of dirty laundry so he has to do with a sweater he has worn already and a pair of jeans. He feels too tired to shave so he doesn’t. Mom is half blind anyway, or watches mostly TV.

He has to stop at a supermarket to buy her favorite brand of mineral water, fruits, vegetables, canned foods—Cara and he both think that their mother shouldn’t be carrying too much heavy stuff anymore, and she doesn’t have a car. He also stops at a news agent to buy some books and magazines. Cara bought her an iPad, but mom likes print magazines. As a kid, mom would buy one every time she got her pay check. After her divorce they couldn’t afford much, so picking the right one was an important decision. Mom always took the kids to the news store, and then they would spend half an hour looking at the glossy covers and decide which one to buy. At home mom would make tea and sweets and together they would sit at the kitchen table, Frederick in her lap, and carefully open the magazine and read it from the cover to the back. Mostly they liked gossip magazines which he should be ashamed of, fancy fashion magazines, the one or other interior magazine. 

He is torn between _Cosmopolitan_ and _InStyle_ , then takes both. He takes the Martha Stewart one as well. Oh well, and a cooking magazine. He flips through a few gossip magazines.

“You’re a man of refined taste,” says a familiar voice behind him.

_Oh God._

Of all the people in Baltimore it has to be Will Graham who catches him with a gossip magazine in his hands, in his two days old sweater and his worn jeans. Frederick just has enough time to roll his eyes, then warily turns around.

“Mr. Graham,” he croaks, his voice actually leaving him. 

When he tries to put the magazine back, the entire stack he’s been holding under his arm, dislodges and everything falls to the floor. Graham tries to bend down and help him gather them up, but nearly topples over in this attempt. Frederick helps him up. 

"You need to heal,“ he says, "don’t ruin the doctor’s good work of stitching you back together.“

Graham’s face is contorted in pain.  
   
"I forgot. I always … forget,“ he says, clipped, a magazine in his hand, the cover all crumpled up by the way Graham is holding on to it. Frederick will have to purchase this one.

“So, anyway... _that_ is where you get your famous style from,” Graham waves the _InStyle_ around, clutching Frederick's arm as if he had never ever any issues with touching people.

Frederick can feel how red his face is. His cheeks are literally burning. He snatches the other magazines up from the ground and puts them back on the shelf. He will not be shamed by a man who wears plaid shirts from Kmart for his fashion sense.

Graham looks at him, studies his face, then his sweater and his jeans.

To add injury to insult, Graham himself looks actually quite decent, wearing a clean white shirt, dark denims, and a grey suit jacket. His hair is neatly combed back and his face is clean shaven, making him look ten years younger.

It’s too much for Frederick.

He has the stupid love to just leave the stupid magazines there and walk out of the store. With as much dignity as he can muster, he extends his hand for the magazine. Will Graham lips twitch as he gives it back to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Graham.”

Graham stares blankly at him, then looks him up and down. A corner of his lips twitches again, and Frederick wonders what it might mean.

“Good to see you,” he says as he walks toward the counter, leaving Graham behind.

He can’t get Graham’s face out of his mind during the drive to his mom. 

His mother exclaims something in Spanish, when she sees him. As a kid, mom was worried he’d be bullied if he’d had a Spanish accent in his English, and Cara’s English had always been flawless. He understands a few things, but because she always insisted in speaking English to him and Cara he understands less than he would like to know. 

“You look like a mess,” she says, following him slowly around, as he carries the shopping from the trunk of his car to her fridge, “it’s afternoon and you haven’t shaved.”

“Where do you want the potatoes?” He is hauling a five kilo sack. The weight puts a strain onto his scar.

Mom points with her finger at a table in the corner, but resumes her critique of his look.

“What are you wearing? Did you sleep in these clothes?”

Frederick presses his lips together.

She starts making tea, opening cupboards, putting cookies onto a plate.

“You lost too much weight,” she complains, “you look like an escaped convict.”

“Thank you, mom,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Are you alright?” she asks, suddenly grabbing him by his sleeve.

“Yes, mother,” he says, the way he does when she exasperates him, “I’m fine.”

“But you don’t look fine,” she says, frowning. 

“Thanks, mom,” he jokes, “just what I need to hear.”

She points at something on his chest. When he looks at his sweater in the mirror he notices the dark splotches of soy sauce on it.

Oh, fucking great. He remembers Will looking him up and down, then his lips twitching.

Mom pours tea, sits him down at the kitchen table. Thankfully, when he pulls out the magazines, she doesn’t pester him any longer, at least for now. 

They follow their old ritual, in which she leafs through the whole thing, and Frederick blowing air onto his tea to cool it down, throws occasional glances, half pretending to be watching TV.

“Oh, dear, Brad Pitt looks so old these days,” she says, perusing glamor shots of him and Angelina Jolie.

“I wouldn’t say no to him,” he mumbles.

His mother smiles, “Obviously he likes dark hair and green eyes! The man has good taste.”

She winks at him and Frederick lifts his tea cup and smirks.

“Well, if you had married Brad Pitt you’d be the one with seven kids,” she says, already turning the page.

She hums, and for a while he feels content just to sit here, like years ago, and drink her tea and listen to her voice.

“You really should introduce me to your boy friend, dear” mom says, all of a sudden, causing Frederick to nearly choke on his tea, “I’m not the youngest any longer.”

She turns the page.

“Jesus, mom,” Frederick shakes his head. “I don’t have a boy friend.”

She tuts at him.

“Then you need to get one. You’re in your best age. It won’t get easier.”

“Well, it’s not as if you get grandchildren out of this deal,” he snaps at her.

“I care about you. I don’t want you to be lonely,” she says, “who will care for you when I am gone? Cara will marry too and have her own family. You will end up as the lonely, unmarried uncle.”

“I’m not lonely,” he gnashes his teeth.

“You look like someone who barely gets out of bed, who doesn’t bother to shave and wears a dirty sweater. And by the way, with jeans like these no one will look twice at you. Why are you wearing clothes that are too big for you?”

“Look, mom, Beyonce,” Frederick points with his tea cup at the magazine to distract her, “let’s talk about Beyonce’s new haircut. Fabulous, right?”

“I heard that men in prison wear their pants low, to show that they—“

“That is enough, mom” Frederick sets down his cup with a clatter, “let’s not talk about the men in prison, alright? My jeans are just a bit loose because I lost some weight. Someone cut me open, took out my kidney and soon after that I was shot in the face by someone who thought I was a serial killer. So please excuse me, that I am not looking like a GQ model at the moment.”

“How is your wound healing?” She reaches out to him, as if to touch his wound, but then her fingers just hover over the scar. “Are you still on pain killers?”

“It’s all healing fine,” he assures her. “In a few weeks I can walk without that cane—just being in the hospital for so long wasn’t great for my rehabilitation.”

He takes her small, dry hand in his, and rubs it gently.

“Cara says she tried to set you up,” mother says. 

“Please,” Frederick’s patience runs thin, “please stop. I know you think I must be pining for a relationship, but I like being alone. I don’t need anyone.”

“You used to always be dressed so sharply. Always in a suit. And now…”

“I can’t get dressed properly because my scar hurts,” Frederick lies, “I need to be comfortable.”

Mom rolls her eyes, but thankfully drops the topic. They have a satisfying conversation about Beyonce and Lady Gaga and the topic of boyfriends doesn't come up again.

At night in his bed, half-drunk on the two bottles of red-wine mom insisted he should take back to his place, he surfs some gay porn, clicks on clips featuring lean, pale boys with dark, curly hair and blue eyes, jerks off to them and falls asleep on the couch. 

When he wakes up, it’s four in the morning and the TV is still running. He stumbles into the bedroom, and crawls into the cold bedsheets.


	8. The Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [notmyyacht](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoamooseketeer/pseuds/cocoamooseketeer) for beta-ing!

He awakens around noon. It takes him another two hours to get out of bed, although it’s a nice sunny day outside.

The first thing crossing his mind, like almost every morning these days is that he still has no job, has not even begun looking for one. Not even an idea of what to do. He’s been a psychiatrist almost his entire life. He can’t imagine himself doing something else. And yet he is a failure. 

He isn’t a great administrator either. He doesn't have really have the brain for it, the accuracy. 

He tries to think of anything he is good at and fails.

 _At least you have more or less successfully pretended to not be a fake for an extended period of time,_ the internal voice reminds him again as he is standing under the shower. (These days he sometimes stands under the shower for twenty minutes, until the water runs cold, unfeeling, unseeing, busy with his internal conversation.)

He feels a frisson of self-loathing when he remembers how he jerked off to the thought of Will Graham yesterday night, drunk and alone. When Graham had been under his care, Frederick had at times admitted to himself that Graham was attractive, a beautiful man who would have probably had a terrible personality if he would have been only aware of his beauty. The fact Graham wasn’t, was a big part of his allure. He had felt more guilty then, when he fantasized about Graham on his hands and knees, pushing his pale ass up, begging for Frederick’s cock.

Most of his fantasies were not about sex anyway—they were more about power, and his desire to see Will Graham on his knees was less an expression of his desire to fuck him, than an desire to see him kneeling—submitting to him.

Graham had recognized Frederick’s secret thoughts which were so tightly connected to his insecurities and toyed with them, even propositioned him–evident in the way he tilted his head when Frederick was prowling around Graham's cage. The way he smiled or gazed at him, from under his lashes, his storm-colored eyes heavy-lidded. The way he had let his voice drop to a whisper, forcing Frederick to step closer.

It had taken Frederick longer than it should have that the whole time Will Graham had been the one who’d been in control—not him. He realized of course he was only a pawn, insignificant to Will Graham, a means to get through to Hannibal Lecter but he had not been smart enough to re-write his script. Like a fool he had played along, and had paid the price for his arrogance and idiocy, for holding on to the illusion he had Will Graham’s strings in his hands when in fact it had been the opposite.

Wasn’t it rather interesting though, how quickly Will Graham had sussed him out. How fast Will Graham had begun playing with him, had changed even his body language to be more insinuating, a bit more ambiguous and … physically provocative.

Of course Frederick had been too stupid to realize he had been played. Only much later, when it was too late, when he was standing in front of Will Graham in his house, covered in blood, he had realized his mistake because Will Graham had no longer upheld his attitude. Gone were the slow smiles, the tilted head, the suggestive glances.

“You deserved to be played,” he mutters to himself, as he is puttering around in the apartment, putting plates into the dishwasher, “he just used you. He was desperate and wanted to get out of there and stop Hannibal Lecter by any means. It is only funny because here you thought you were using him.”

He laughs, an odd sound in the empty apartment. He gathers up the two empty bottles.

“Stop pretending anyone gives a shit about you,” he hisses angrily at himself, “you thought you could use him, but instead he used you. You had it coming, so stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

That sentence makes him halt his movements briefly. Does he feel sorry for himself?

“Everyone is just a bit smarter than you, Frederick,” he continues his incensed monologue, resisting the urge to smash the bottles in the sink, “the faster you learn the better for everyone involved.”

Someone knocks on the door as Frederick is on the way to the coffee table with another bottle of wine. 

He has told the cleaning staff to not to disturb him.

“I’m alright,” he calls out, “No cleaning needed today.”

There is no answer first, but he can hear someone shuffling their feet around and more importantly not leaving. The irritation Frederick had directed at himself, now focuses on that person on the other side of the door.

“I already told you. Twice,” he says loudly, “I’ll call the front desk if I need anything.”

Someone clears his voice.

“It’s me … Will.”

He is so surprised he stumbles over the coffee table. Cups and trays fall onto the ground. A glass breaks.

“Are you alright?” asks Will’s muffled voice through the door. A slight pause then, “Frederick?”

Hastily Frederick gathers the shards from the floor, but of course cuts himself. 

Cursing he holds the finger up. Blood drips onto his thigh. 

He is wearing a black t-shirt and briefs, nothing else. At two o’clock in the afternoon.

With another muttered curse he drops the shards into the sink.

“One moment,” he calls out, scrambling to find a clean pair of jeans. 

“Frederick?” 

He finally finds a pair and hops on one leg towards the door, pulling the other leg up. 

As he passes the coffee table something sharp digs into his sole, and he half hisses, half cries out in pain. Blood drips onto the carpet, exactly what he wanted to prevent. Just great. He finds another rather large chunk of the glass embedded in his sole now, a nasty looking cut.

“Frederick, are you alright?” 

Will is pounding the door with his fist. 

“Frederick! Open the door!"

More pounding, and what sounds like a body slamming into the door.

“Frederick!” Just great, Will Graham is now yelling. 

Frederick yanks the door open, bleeding and irate.

“For god’s sake, Graham, I’m sure even Hannibal Lecter in Europe knows now where I live!”

Will is standing before him, his fist still raised.

“I heard glass shattering. I feared for your life,” he says. The half righteous, half whiny tone of his voice further irritates Frederick, but he bites his tongue.

Graham bends down and retrieves a brown paper parcel lying on the floor.

“You’re bleeding,” he comments.

“Yes, indeed, I do,” Frederick says, balancing on one foot.

“Your foot is bleeding too,” Will says.

“How do you do that? Your powers of observation are impressive,” Frederick opens the door, and hobbles towards the kitchen, carefully avoiding the cream-colored carpet in the middle of the living room.

“Are you alone?” Will asks, following him in, looking around. 

Frederick, who is opening and closing drawers looking for band aids, stills.

“Yes. Why?”

Finally Frederick has found band aids and gingerly wraps one around his finger. 

“I heard voices. It sounded as if you were talking to someone”

“TV,” Frederick mumbbles under his breath. He rests his foot on the kitchen stool beside him to attend to that shard. 

Before he can reach around to pull it out, Will Graham has stepped closer and taken his foot into his hands.

He pointedly glances at the switched off TV.

Frederick is not really too fond of people touching him. Not in a compulsive way but still—he’d rather avoid it. Will Graham’s touch for example feels odd. Like—liquid heat pulsing from his foot, crouching over his leg and his groins until it coils in his belly. He can feel his heartbeat under his entire skin. He grits his teeth so he doesn’t yank his foot away.

Graham takes a tissue, then gently pulls out the shard with a deft, experienced movement. He presses another tissue onto his sole, and waits until the blood-flow ceases before he puts on a band aid he shakes out of the box with his other hand.

“Thank you,” Frederick says.

“My dogs get splinters, shards and stones into their paws all the time,” Will Graham explains.

Frederick yanks wet wipes from a box to clean up the bloodied floor.

It’s always astonishing how a small cut can cause so much blood. It makes him feel slightly nauseous.

“Were you talking to yourself?” Graham asks softly.  

“No,” Frederick scrubs at the stain in the carpet which develops from a small red dot into a pinkish large dot.

“I think I heard only your voice. And your phone isn’t—“

“Look. Mr. Graham. What do you want? As you can see I am busy.”

“I came to say Hi.”

At that Frederick looks up.

Graham is still fiddling with the parcel in his hand.

“I need a coffee,” Frederick decides, more perplexed than irritated now. “Do you want a coffee?”

To his surprise Graham accepts. (Why shouldn’t he? After all he has obviously driven all the way here to say hi.)

While they’re waiting for the water to boil, it turns out, Graham’s ability to perform small talk is not exactly impressive. It takes him a long time and some effort to come up with a bland “So … you're a coffee drinker?”

Frederick nervously fingers the french press.

“Is there something you want to talk about to me, Mr. Graham?”

He puts emphasis on the Graham because strangely enough in his head he calls Will Graham “Will” and it costs him conscious effort to not slip up.

The water cooker switches itself off with an audible click, and Frederick pours the boiling water into the glass container.

“That’s an interesting way to make coffee,” Graham remarks, with something akin to desperation on his face.

“If you don’t know how to socialize, maybe you should not be making social visits?” Frederick can’t help thinking acidly, but gives Will Graham a clipped smile.

“You’ve never seen a French press before?”

“I’ve seen them before,” Will Graham says, “but I don't have one.”

“Milk, sugar?”

“Just black, please.”

Frederick pours him a cup, and pushes it over the marble counter towards him. Graham takes a sip and as Frederick half expected it nearly spits it out again.

“That’s … strong,” he croaks. Frederick hands him wordlessly a glass of water, which he gratefully accepts.

“Do you want an apology?” Frederick asks, “is that what you’re here for?”

Will Graham blinks slowly, once, then twice. 

“No,” he then says, “I mean you _do_ owe me one, but I’m not here for that.”

“Well, I apologize,” says Frederick.

It’s not the way he wanted, not the setting he had quite imagined, but it will have to do.

“What?” Will Graham blinks again, and something about him irritates Frederick so much, he’d like to slap these stupid glasses off this stupidly pretty face.

“I said, I apologize,” Frederick repeats, louder and more impatient, “for what I did to you. I want it over and done with.”

“Oh,” Will Graham says. 

“Do you accept my apology?” Frederick asks, glancing at the blood-spot on the carpet over Graham’s shoulder. Shouldn’t he take care of it? It upsets him suddenly. He can't tear his eyes away from the stain.

“I—I don’t know,” Will Graham stutters, blinking owlishly through his glasses. 

“Is this not why you’re really here?” Frederick tries very hard not to sound impatient or irritated, but it’s hard with Graham. Finally, because he can’t stand staring at that pink spot on the carpet any longer, he snatches a kitchen paper roll, wets a few under the running water and heads towards the carpet. He can hear Will Graham follow him, a bit unsteady. Scrubbing the spot on his knees, he gets irritated.

“If you want to sue me for malpractice, go ahead,” he says, “I am beyond caring. And you know what? You would win.”

Will Graham walks away but not to the door—he walks to the kitchen area, where he hears him rummaging around, then comes back and crouches down beside him, pouring salt onto the salt. Before Frederick can stop him, there is a massive mountain of salt on that carpet. Frederick stops with the scrubbing, staring at the white pile. 

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Helping,” Graham states, “Red-wine and blood stains can be removed by pouring salt onto it. I read that. On the internet.”

“Yes but there was no need to waste all of my Himalayan Rock Salt!”

Shaking his head in disbelief he gets out his handheld Dyson vacuum-cleaner and starts cleaning the salt from the carpet.

“You have a Dyson,” Will Graham states.

“Is that a problem for you?”

Will Graham inhales sharply.

“For someone who claims to be sorry you’re awfully … abrasive,” Will Graham says.

“I am not sorry,” Frederick snaps.

“You just apologized!”

“Just because I apologized doesn’t mean I have to be sorry.” Frederick can kind of understand why Jack Crawford was perpetually in a shitty mood. If he had to deal someone so obtuse as Graham all the time he’d be yelling too.

“So your apology meant nothing,” Graham says with an air of finality, “it was just empty words.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Be actually sorry for subjecting me to your questionable choice of therapy,” Will Graham is one of those talented individuals who manage to convey air quotes alone through speech. No hooked index fingers needed.

Frederick only grits his teeth.

“So how is the Dyson?” asks Will Graham after he watches Frederick working the vacuum cleaner.

“I am thinking of getting one, although 800 dollar for a vacuum cleaner is a bit steep.”

Frederick doesn’t answer.

Graham continues to talk about the Dyson. When he runs out of things to list about it, he stops, thank God, and just watches as Frederick stows the thing away.

“I brought you something,” he says after a while, when it becomes apparent that Frederick won’t say a thing, then turns around and leaves.

Will has left the brown paper bag.

When Frederick lifts the brown paper back a few thick magazines slide out, gossip magazines, fashion magazines.

He opens the door and yells after Will, “They were not for me! They were for my mother!”

“So give them to your mother,” Will replies, before stepping into the elevator.


	9. Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [notmyyacht](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoamooseketeer/pseuds/cocoamooseketeer) for beta-ing! All remaining errors are mine!

In the following weeks the only entertainment in Frederick’s life is watching TV, visiting his mother on Sunday afternoons, looking out of the window, and staring at the wall. He should be doing physio, should be walking around. He definitely should have called the psychiatrist, set up an appointment. He should be looking for jobs. 

He does nothing.

One night he falls asleep and jerks awake, because he can feel rough, calloused hands holding his foot. he can feel the press of a thumb on his arch, a firm grip on his ankle. There is a strange feeling in Frederick’s heart, and it takes him a few minutes until he remembers that it was Will who had held his foot a few days ago.

( _No, not Will. Graham._ )

He can't go back to sleep and after an hour gives in and takes a valium. 

He doesn't want to think about Will Graham, but his thoughts wander back to him. 

Will Graham, who despite his apparent dislike came all the way from Wolftrap or wherever he lives these days to bring him magazines and bandaged his foot when he cut himself on a shard. 

(He still resents him for calling Jack Crawford though, although he acknowledges Graham meant well. He knew Frederick would never make it a week on his own, out there with Hannibal Lecter chasing him.)

It's difficult to see how Graham's mind works. Bloom seemed to assume he could control his empathy only to a certain extent but was emotionally overwhelmed by the intensity of his emotions. She seemed—at first—protective of him, but she has changed her opinions about him several times throughout their acquaintance. Was Graham at first an adorable puppy who needed protection from a cold and uncaring world, she later distanced herself and seemed to find him dangerous. Not quite the innocent puppy, Frederick had thought then. She was never forthcoming with her professional opinion about Graham but she has shared much (too much) with Lecter, and Lecter has sometimes repeated her opinions during their shared lunches or dinners—always under the guise of "merely exchanging interesting view points"—but even then Frederick had seen the amused glint in Lecter's eyes.

Frederick sometimes thought, Lecter was the one idealizing Graham. In various instances he used the words "pure" and "unadulterated" when he spoke of Graham, and underneath Hannibal's casual, conversational tone Frederick felt something else–fascination of course, but also ... more. A vibration that seemed to vanish whenever he directed his attention toward it.

At a party at Lecter's house, long before Will Graham became a murder suspect, he was a topic. Someone mentioned the dogs he had, and contrasted it with his anti-social demeanor. Another guest immediately dismissed the connection. Maybe it's more about control than the desire for connection. After all they are all trained very well. He wants affection, but cannot deal with the complex demands another human being would have. Other human beings require emotional maturity. The affection of dogs is easier won.

Another guest, an employee of Jack Crawford (but not a psychiatrist, merely an enthusiastic amateur) spoke in length about the fact that Graham, who despite the fact he had dogs, still ate meat and was an avid fisherman. Ergo: there were limits to his empathy. (As far as Frederick remembers the discussion had been about nature vs nurture—was Graham's ability some sort of neurological defect or brought on through specific events in his early childhood?) He wasn't as exposed and vulnerable as he pretended to be, the man concluded, smirking. Not many men, Frederick realized then, liked Will Graham. 

Bloom, who had been a guest too, had remained silent and not betrayed with a single word she even knew Will Graham personally.

In the hospital Frederick taunted Graham a few times by pretending to doubt his heightened empathy. He told Graham he thought him a fraud essentially, but Graham did not bite, was hardly moved by Frederick's childish and clumsy attempts to lure a reaction. 

Now he can't help but re-think each encounter between him and Will Graham, scrutinize the exact circumstances and replay them—only this time he is a passive observer in the background. He discards his pre-conceived notions. He scraps the hostile interpretations of Will's idiosyncrasies and starts anew. 

Graham for one thing possesses inherent kindness. The way he speaks about his dogs with Alana betrays deep affection and longing—it's hard to distinguish if he's pining for his dogs or for Ms. Bloom though. He feels genuine sorrow and grief about Abigail Hobbs. The fact he is mourning Abigail is alone not a proof of his innocence of course. Shortly after the trial Will called out for Abigail in his dreams, then woke up crying.

As a contrast, when Frederick dared to bring up Abigail with Hannibal, he spoke about his love, his devotion, but his eyes remained cold. He didn't think Hannibal was lying but maybe he had a different understanding of love or devotion.

Maybe Hannibal Lecter was drawn to Will Graham because of Will Graham’s inherent, instinctive kindness, a trait Lecter himself may lack. 

Maybe that is why Frederick resents him so much: his own glib demeanor, designed to get people’s attention, was instantly dismissed by Hannibal Lecter, from the first moment they met, years ago, at a congress. Frederick could have never admitted to himself that Lecter only tolerated him because Frederick kept contacting him. He has of course, never admitted to himself how much Lecter’s indifference crushed his ego. Lecter was always polite, in his sardonic way, but only when Will Graham was under his care, he begun to seek out Frederick's companionship. Frederick was not so stupid to not realize why he was suddenly Lecter's new favourite person but it was still flattering.

Frederick vividly remembers the day Will Graham was released from the BSHCI. The moment he asked him why Hannibal Lecter hadn't simply killed him. The unsaid words hanging in the air when Graham simply stated, „He wants to be my friend.“

_But he doesn't care about you._

(Luckily the valium hits hard this time, probably because he washed it down with a glass of pinot, and soon his thoughts stop being thoughts but turn into visual images then fade into black.)

Frederick had for years attempted to become Lecter's friend. Nothing Frederick ever did had been good enough for Lecter. Frederick had been petty enough to be disappointed by the fact Lecter had _never_ congratulated him to his house or to the choice of his Jaguar. Extremely childish and immature of course, but it had stung how Lecter had only raised his eyebrows and smiled coldly.

Frederick had been unable to ignore how irrelevant he was, to both of them: Witnessing how Will Graham who had been dismissive and arrogant towards him, captured Lecter in a way no one ever had before. It had … infuriated him. 

Frederick is aware of the mess his own thoughts present: the ugly incoherence, the uncontrolled jealousy, small mindedness, mixed with barely inappropriate admissions of sexual desire, his insecurities, his vanity.

Stop it, he thinks, and realizes a few moments later, he has spoken aloud.

 

Although he never tells Cara of any of these thoughts she once scolds him for his "intense self-loathing,” as she calls it. He vows to himself to be more careful in future. 

He purposefully tries to do things he didn’t do in the past. 

On days when his scar behaves, he goes to bookstores, perusing books, he would have never looked at before. Novels, travel magazines, cook books. He attends exhibitions, which at first feels strange to him, but soon he likes to stand before pieces of art, just looking at them, losing himself in the expressions of an artist’s mind. 

He is astonished to find beauty in works, he never thought he could understand. He doesn’t understand them now either, and he can’t interpret art, but he feels a peculiar, not unpleasant tugging in his core towards some pieces. They seem to whisper to him, tell him things about himself in a foreign language. 

On another day he leaves the car in the garage and walks to a café nearby. He’s driven past a few times and has decided to visit it, maybe a step in his conscious attempt to re-invent himself; go to a cafe, read, look out the window. He hasn’t done that since college.

At the cafe he indulges in an enormous creamy macchiato with cinnamon and cocoa sprinkles.

Of course he ends up stalking tattle crime.com and is only a little ashamed of reading all stories tagged with Will Graham. Freddie Lounds’ style is questionable. She doesn’t waste time with good prose but she seems to be a good researcher. She has found former class mates of Graham, friends of his father, even one or two older people who knew the mother. She has found all possible details of Will Graham’s early life and exposed them, stripped Will Graham’s bio of any secrets. 

There is an abundance of interviews with Will Graham, some of them after his near fatal encounter with Hannibal Lecter. Frederick reads them all. He can’t help enjoying the cat and mouse games they play with each other. Frederick doesn’t necessarily despise her: She has saved his life, has stayed calm and collected when others would have lost their nerves. Frederick wonders if there is a trace of misogyny in Will Graham’s hatred of Lounds–Lecter possesses similar traits after all, but Graham seems to be fascinated by them. And while Lecter might appear nobler because of his manners, Lounds has at least never killed anyone.

Until the interview at the BSHFCI, she has always described Will Graham in a hostile tone but in her blog entries after Will’s release her view of him has changed. People with characters as fundamentally polar to each other can never truly like each other, but maybe they have both reached a truce. As little Freddie Lounds thinks of William Graham she at least knows now he has courage.

There is not much about himself, and the few remarks about him are so unflattering and aggravating, Frederick nearly throws his iPad into the bin but then the things Lounds says about him, if only to defend him from the accusation he could be the Chesapeake Ripper, are not so different from what he thinks about himself these days. 

Yes, he was a failure as a surgeon. His heart was never in it. Given the fact surgeons are high in the list of professions that attract psychopaths it’s not the worst thing, but it has been disappointing for his mother and Cara. 

He likes to think he didn’t mind the theory—he just didn’t have the steely determination and ambition needed in the operation theater, the often cited god complex. He has recognized it in some of the other medical students—a distinctive mix of a lack of empathy, arrogance, vanity, narcissism. Even when they were well regarded and appeared genuine and caring, Frederick could see through them. Probably that was, why he thought he would make a good psychiatrist.

Frederick feels a slight disappointment after finishing the last entry on Will Graham, the same empty feeling he has when finishing a good book he never wanted to end and re-reads one of the interviews with him, this time carefully studying Graham’s choice of words.

He lets his iPad sink as he realizes what he is doing. 

He is obsessing over Will Graham. He is letting the man fill his mind. His anxious brain is using Graham as an excuse to avoid thinking of more pressing things. Seething he finishes his coffee and walks out, gripping his walking stick unnecessarily firm.

When he arrives at his apartment he does admit to himself, that Will Graham was at least decent to him. 

Will Graham could not have foreseen Miriam Lass’ attempt on his life—even someone as well-versed in shifting blame to others as he is, can’t blame Graham for that one. He might not like Frederick, but he didn’t call Jack Crawford out of contempt. Will Graham merely tried to do the right thing—did the right thing. 

 

Just out of spite (spite against himself) he goes out and has sex with a stranger. The sex is neither disappointing nor horrible, but not great either. The man he picks up is a young suburbanite with pictures of his kids in his wallet. He has an understanding wife, a pretty house. Good for him. The man asks him about himself and Frederick invents lies, tells him he is an accountant in a company, something boring.

Sex is a decent distraction. In the course of the next weeks, he picks up some more men. Some of them he even takes to his apartment, sees more than once. It’s not very excessive but definitely a lot more sex than he had in the past years.

Eventually one of the men he picks up recognizes him.

"You’re the guy who got cut open by his patient,” the man says, "and you were shot.” Frederick still has sex with him. He indulges the man’s curiosity about the case. The man, whose name is Ted, is very nice and comforting about it. 

Ted has his own small business, a small t-shirt company—the money could be better but they’re doing ok, he says. Frederick likes that Ted is satisfied with what he is doing, content with who he is. He finds that soothing, to spend time with someone who is not eaten up by ambition, guilt and self-loathing but just leads a simple, good life.

They don’t really start dating.

He can tell that Ted wants to, and Frederick can’t really explain what makes him pull back, but he likes things a bit non-committal. Although he stays over at Ted’s place, he never leaves any clothes there, even when Ted demonstratively cleans out a drawer for him. He takes care to see him once a week, sometimes less.

He wants it to last, but at the same time he feels he never really is with Ted. He has sex with men but he can’t, strangely enough, imagine to live with one. He cannot imagine himself being part of a couple. Maybe he never really could. Ted introduces him to a staggering amount of gay couples, maybe in a not very subtle bid to convince him. Most of them are very sweet and welcoming. He enjoys the dinners and he gets his fair share of warm-hearted coming out stories, a few tales of how one partner proposed to the other, how they persevered in the face of homophobia. He likes the way Ted has his hand on his knee or his arm around Frederick’s shoulder and yet he finds himself not answering Ted’s calls for a few days, locking himself in his apartment, watching cartoons and porn.

He is in black sweatpants and a white t-shirt, slouching on the couch when someone knocks at his door.

He just turns the TV up. Ted would call before coming over.

The knocking intensifies.

"Go away,” he says over the noise of the TV.

He stares at the colorful images on the screen, unseeing.

Whoever it is, starts knocking again.

"Frederick,” he hears, and Frederick knows who it is.

Sighing he gets up and opens the door.

Will Graham looks disheveled. He looks at Frederick’s face, then down at his attire and his bare feet. Frederick has to remind himself again, that Graham likely buys his entire wardrobe at Kmart.

"Mr. Graham,” he says.

There  is a moment of expectant silence. 

"Won’t you invite me in?” asks Graham incredulously after a while.

"Not really,” Frederick replies.

"How is your foot? Stepped into glass lately?”

"It’s healing fine. I have not contracted gangrene. Bye now.”

As he moves to close the door, Will Graham has the audacity to push his booted foot between the door and the frame. 

"You’re a prick,” Will Graham says, as he pushes past Frederick.

"You’re trespassing,” Frederick slams the door shut and follows him in.

"Hannibal Lecter wrote me,” Graham says without preamble.

Frederick has not thought a sentence could affect him so much, but the first thing he hears is a dull roar in his ears, as if a grey, stormy sea is rolling towards him from out of nowhere. It feels as if the ground under him is shaking. The walls of this apartment fall away and for a brief moment he is standing in a white void.

"Why are you telling me?” he asks. He needs to hold on to the counter of his kitchen island.

Graham steps toward him, a nervous look on his face.

"Maybe you should sit down, you look pale,” he says.

He bats Grahams hand away and makes his way to the couch, still reeling.

Graham simply stands, his hands hanging down at his sides, looking concerned. Frederick can’t say if he is truly concerned or if this is his trained FBI looking concerned face.

Finally he seems to come to some sort of decision and comes over to where Frederick is sitting, laying a hand on to his shoulder, pressing gently, then crouches down.

"Listen. I called Jack Crawford,” he says.

"Is that supposed to reassure me?” Frederick’s doesn’t care his tone is waspish and shrill, "because Jack Crawford has eaten at Lecter’s table for nearly a year, has not believed your or my words, when we both told him Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper and let himself be almost killed by him.”

Will Graham takes place in an arm chair opposite the couch, watching Frederick carefully. He is shaking, feeling nauseated. Will Graham says something to him, and he can’t even hear him through the noise in his head and ears.

Blinking, he tries to will himself back into the presence—snap out of it, you’re just having a panic attack, but instead he can feel how his heart seems to try to burst out of his rib cage. An iron band tightens around his chest.

Lecter will find and kill him. He will find and kill Will too. There will be no place to hide from him, because it is impossible to hide from Hannibal Lecter. No one who has survived Lecter has survived by their own will. They have all survived because Lecter had no interest in killing them. 

"… just a panic attack,” Will Graham’s voice comes floating back to him, sounding strangely distorted. Frederick wonders if there is something wrong with his ears and experimentally presses his hand against them. Will Graham reaches up and tries to pry them off.

”I know I am having a panic attack,” Frederick snaps at him, "I know you think me an incompetent psychiatrist but I can still recognize a panic attack. I can deal with it on my own.”

Graham gets up—to leave, as Frederick hopes/fears—but returns with a glass of water. Against his will Frederick takes it, but his hands are shaking badly.

"Adrenaline rush,” he comments, "it will abate within the next minutes.”

Graham takes the glass of water out of his hands, then holds it against his lips. He even reaches around and gently puts his other hand around his neck, against the back of his head, in a steadying manner.

Frederick drinks. The cool water calms him somewhat.

For a while he just sits and stares at an empty spot above the TV waiting for his body to calm down. One method of controlling a panic attack is to think things through, to engage one’s own unrealistic and absurd fear—expose them as outlandish and exaggerated, but with Hannibal Lecter no fear is exaggerated or outlandish. 

"What did he tell you?” Frederick manages to ask in what he thinks might pass as a normal voice.

"He misses me,” Will Graham states in a flat voice.

"He misses you,” Frederick looks at the ceiling.

"He told me, he finds Europe dull … without me,” Graham confirms.

Frederick opens and closes his mouth, like a fish on land. He finds himself falling into his breathing exercises.

Graham watches.

"Why did you come to me?” Frederick asks, "Hannibal Lecter will find out you’ve been visiting me and get jealous and kill me.”

"What!?” Graham gasps.

"He is obsessed with you,” Frederick says, "he killed everyone around you or removed you from them. He made sure you had no one else and no one else could have you. If he realizes you have been to my apartment he will assume we are god forbid friends and … remember how you told me, he wants to be your friend? To Hannibal one method of procuring your friendship is evidently to kill all your other friends.”

"He did not kill Alana Bloom,” Will Graham points out, "also I object to your use of "god forbid.”

"He seduced, manipulated and brainwashed her. I am pretty confident he’ll choose different methods to deal with me or he is sexually far more flexible than I thought he is,” Frederick replies. 

"What makes you think he isn’t? Do you think you have sussed out his sexuality?” Graham asks.

"That’s beside the point. The point is that you are in my apartment and it never bode very well for people to be close to you. A lot of people who were in contact with you died or ended up nearly dead. Including me. You should leave and never contact me again if you care for my safety.”

"I’m not too concerned about your safety,” Will Graham rolls his eyes, "you have never been overly concerned with mine either.”

"Yes, as you’re practically leading the Chesapeake Ripper directly to my house I can see how you’re not concerned about my safety! Now please leave before my other kidney ends up in a kidney pie as well.”

"I don’t want to befriend you,” says Will Graham, "just for the record. I am not a very sociable person.”

"Well, that works out splendidly then, because now you can immediately leave, delete the address from your memory and never return,” Frederick nearly yells. He doesn’t yell often, but this conversation is like pulling teeth.

"Also, I don’t think your other kidney ever ended up in a kidney pie.”

"GET. OUT.”

Frederick immediately regrets his outburst—mostly because he hates to lose his composure in front of Will Graham of all people.

"Sorry, Mr. Graham,” he says, collecting himself, "thank you for stopping by and delivering your news, but I… I need some time alone now.”

Will Graham silently turns around and walks towards the door. At the door he hesitates, turning the door known in his hand.

Something occurs to Frederick

"Did you directly drive all the way from Wolftrap to my place?” he asks.

Graham is staring at the door knob. 

„Not exactly Wolftrap,“ he mumbles.

Graham doesn’t move, as if waiting for an answer, waiting for something else. He reminds Frederick very much of a scolded puppy. What would Cara and his mother say if they were to witness this? If they knew how he had treated this man in the past, subjected him to his therapy? They were already taken aback when he had explained to them how long Will Graham had been locked up in the hospital. 

"But he was innocent!” his mother had exclaimed.

"Could you not tell he spoke the truth?” she had asked.

Cara had looked at him over the rim of her tea cup and refused to come to his aid.

They both have naive ideas about psychotherapy (and his job especially). It had taken him long enough to explain to his mother especially that no, he could not just have proven Will Graham’s innocence with a polygram test "like they do on TV”. 

The point is though, that they would be disappointed in his treatment of Will Graham, who seems to be horribly unstable and lonely. His mother would have blanched at him turning away rudely someone who had just driven for an hour to get to him (for whatever reason). 

Resolutely trying to shake the lethargy and annoyance out of his system he swings his legs over the couch and sits up.

"I’m sorry,” he says. "Can I offer you a cup of coffee or tea?”

Will Graham’s face doesn’t betray any emotion as he nods and slowly steps back towards the kitchen counter. This time Graham helps him with the french press, fumbling around with the top.

"I usually have instant coffee,” he says sheepishly.

"I can tell,” says Frederick, "I’m sure you add lots of white processed sugar to combat the acidity.”

"Yes, of course,” Will says as if it is the most natural thing in the world, "tastes like battery acid otherwise.”

He laughs weakly at his own joke. Frederick smiles and to his own astonishment finds it not so difficult to smile at him.

"Instant coffee is bad for you. Ruins your stomach,” he says. 

"You know, you could be right, I think I do have some stomach related problems,” Graham says, almost enthusiastically, but thankfully does not delve into unpleasant details.

This time around Frederick takes care not to prepare the coffee too strong. He adds an obscene amount of sugar.

Graham sniffs the cup, then takes a careful sip, like a cat.

"Mmh!” Will Graham makes an appreciative noise in the back of his noise, lifting the cup and giving him one of his twitchy smiles, "that’s really good coffee.”

There is something endearing about Graham liking his coffee with too much sugar.

"What are you smiling at?” Graham asks.

Frederick blinks, then wipes the stupid smile from his face.  
   
"Nothing,” he says.

They remain standing at the kitchen island, leaning over the counter, sipping their coffees, with Will Graham occasionally pushing his glasses up in a nervous gesture.

Frederick doesn’t ask any longer what it is that Will Graham wants. He wants something, so much is clear, but by now Frederick is ready to consider perhaps Graham doesn’t exactly know what he wants here, too.

And maybe for now it’s alright.


	10. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, [notmyyacht](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoamooseketeer/pseuds/cocoamooseketeer) for beta-ing this! All remaining errors are mine!

The next days are uneventful. He lets most calls go to voice mail, although he picks up when his sister calls. For his sister he always puts on a cheerful voice, jokes and laughs at her jokes. The brief conversations with her always leave him in an ambivalent state. He enjoys the few minutes when he can at least _act_ unburdened—just being the brother of someone, and forget about his own life but he also finds himself inexplicably exhausted the moment he ends the call, and he can’t think of a single reason to leave the house, to shower or to shave or even to move.

Although he is often awake at dawn, listening to the city waking up, he remains in bed until noon anyway.  

As a psychiatrist he knows that type of silent despair filling the corners of his mind. He knows the signs.

It feels like driving on a long, straight road, and seeing that other car driving straight towards him. He only needs to turn the wheel, need only to veer to the left or the right to avoid collision— _he knows_ —and yet he just can’t bring himself to move. He can only stare motionless at the other car and wait for the crash.

He watches sitcoms and lets the canned laughter fill his room.

 

Will Graham comes by again after a few days, in the same manner. When Frederick asks him why he doesn’t call beforehand, Graham just points out, that Frederick wouldn’t answer his phone anyway which Frederick can’t deny.

Will Graham brings DVDs and vegan food. 

It’s a little eerie how Graham seems to know that Frederick has forgotten to feed himself the entire day. Politely Frederick eats the food, aware that Graham keeps watching him like a hawk. 

After they have finished eating, Will Graham lingers, looking at the DVDs he has laid out on the counter. An indie movie, a horror movie, some sort of Western comedy.

Only in that moment Frederick realizes Will Graham plans to hang out with him. Like in… hanging out. He doesn't know if he doesn't want to or not, but since Graham is already here they might as well watch that damned movie.

They sit on opposite ends of the couch and watch Seth McFarlane and Charlize Theron. Graham begins to make (remarkably funny) comments on the un-funniness of the film, and against his will, Frederick smiles a few times, and once or twice barks out a laugh. Every time he does that, a surprised look flits over Will’s face, as if he is positively shocked that someone will actually laugh at his jokes. Every time Frederick catches himself laughing openly he shuts his mouth again, embarrassed.

Graham pushes his glasses up, grabs a handful of organic kale chips grinning to himself.

That sight alone makes Frederick smile more, and he hides it behind his sleeve.

The horror movie turns out to be funnier (if unintentionally) than the comedy and they laugh a few times about the stupidity of the plot.

"Will she run upstairs or downstairs?” 

At one moment Will Graham bends actually forward, like a guy watching a soccer match, and curses at the screen.

"No, don’t get out of the car!”

"If her actions would make any sense the whole movie would have finished half an hour ago, right after the intro,” Frederick says. 

"It’s a pet peeve actually,” Graham explains, "that trope of that scared woman going down into the dark basement which has no light—of course—and very rickety stairs. If she would be that kind of scared person who screams when her cat jumps out of a shadow, she would never ever go into a basement by herself. If she would be that kind of person who goes into a dark basement to investigate suspicious noises, she’d be tough and no-nonsense.”

"Well, what I said before,” Frederick only says, "horror movies need protagonists who are idiots, otherwise all these plots could never work.”

Graham grumbles his agreement. They continue watching. Graham makes another joke, this time about the supposed ghost haunting the house, and Frederick can’t help laughing again. He notices how Graham’s lips twitch when he smiles, almost as though smiling is an unusual exercise for him too.

They have a conversation between movies.

It’s not too serious but it’s not boring small talk either. Just Graham continues to mock the film, and Frederick lowering his guard, joins him. Then suddenly they’re talking about directors and movies—they’re both not excessive film connoisseurs, but Graham likes "The Thomas Crown Affair.” He found "Napoleon Dynamite” hilarious, but thinks "The Office” unkind. They both dislike soccer but Frederick likes F1 and Tennis. 

Graham, Frederick notices, talks louder and more often than Frederick. He doesn’t like silence (with seven dogs at home it is probably never really quiet in Will Graham’s house).

They don’t mention Hannibal Lecter. 

Lecter feels like an ancient, demonic force lurking in the shadows. He wonders if Graham too, sometimes fools himself into believing that, as long as they don’t speak about him, he doesn’t have power over them. 

Everyone has been wounded by Hannibal Lecter, Frederick thinks. No one will ever be the same but the only one who is still out there, un-scarred and whole is Lecter. This makes Frederick even more determined to not speak of him. He won’t have this man poisoning everything.

When Graham leaves, his body language is relaxed, and his features are open. 

"See you soon,” he says.

 

He wakes up in the middle of the night.

He can’t move. 

He can’t breathe, he can’t scream. He is imprisoned in his own body—no matter how much he rails against the confines of his flesh, how hard he tries to open his mouth, no sound escapes him. He can’t even lift a single finger.

If he could only reach the mobile on his night stand he could call 911 but the phone, only a few inches from his face, could as well be a million miles away. 

Paralyzed he stares into the darkness.

He hears steps in the apartment and immediately recognizes Hannibal Lecter’s measured steps. He seems to walk back and forth in the living room, then rounding the kitchen island, perhaps perusing his utensils and cook books, trying to come up with a recipe in which he can use Frederick’s organs, then his steps seem to retreat again. It’s as if he is drawing sadistic pleasure from Frederick’s fear. 

He wishes he could feel a semblance of fury, which could help him to overcome this state, which may shock his system with enough nor epinephrine to be able to move but all he feels is pure, unadulterated fear. 

Slowly the steps are getting closer. Lecter is taking his time. 

"I don’t want to die like this,” Frederick thinks, desperately, "I can’t go like this.”

When Abel Gideon cut him open, he was in a drug-induced haze. The drugs had taken the edge off his panic. At least, there was no pain, but with Lecter there will be pain. Lecter will take care of that—he will ensure that he has no way of regaining control over his movements but will feel every cut and every incision.

"Hello Frederick,” Hannibal’s voice is soft and yet cold, the voice of death.

Frederick cannot scream.

He opens his mouth but he cannot scream, manages only a thin, voiceless, shuddering exhale.

He wakes up.

It’s still dark outside although birds are singing already. It must be past three or four but before six. He exhales with relief when he can lift his arm, and turns on the night light, slowly sitting up and peering into every corner of his room. It takes him several minutes until he can get his shivering under control, until he can breathe again and his heartbeat slows down.

It’s just a panic attack resulting from his nightmare, which again was caused by PTSD he tells himself in the same cold, mocking voice he used when talking to patients at the BSHCI. 

He gets up, takes his blanket with him and sits on the couch, turning on the TV, takes half a valium. Whenever he falls asleep though he jerks awake after a few seconds, and finally around seven he gets up, despite his lightheadedness and dizziness.

Around nine he calls his mother who has the audacity to ask him why he is calling her again. His own mother! The same woman who complained not long ago that she hasn’t seen him in years and that he has never time for her. 

"Do you need any shopping?” he asks irritated.

"I have enough mineral water to last me two world wars,” she says.

"No water then, do you have enough canned peas? Do you want me to drive by the grocery tonight? Do you need bananas? Beans?”

"Frederico,” his mother says, her voice gentle, "I don’t need anything. Why don’t you just come by and have dinner with us? Cara will come too.”

It would be nice. He closes his eyes briefly. It would be nice to sit in her warm kitchen, to let her voice wash over him and lull him into this sense of security, but tonight he feels he would not be able to fake a good mood. Cara and mother, they both would see through him, as they always have. Eventually they would find out about Will Graham and Lecter, and then they would be worried.

"Maybe,” he finds himself lying, "I’ll call later.”

He does not go out, as he had planned yesterday. 

He switches off his phone, leaves the blinds down, locks the door. 

A panic attack needs time to abate, he thinks. Sometimes it would only take five to twenty minutes, but an attack this vicious, accompanied by hallucination or night terror or whatever it is he experienced needs more time to leave his system.

Perhaps another valium.

The hours simultaneously creep by and seem to flit by like mere blinks of an eye. He watches episodes of a cooking show, movies, documentaries. He doesn’t really see, but the colorful images and voices seeping out of the TV help combating the turmoil of his own thoughts.

At some point he has to go to the bathroom. He notices he hasn’t eaten, but he feels no hunger. 

He forces himself to take a quick shower, because he smells of fear then stands under the running water for almost an hour. He lathers himself again and again with shower gel to get rid of the stink of despair and panic.

He tries to be clinical about himself, measure his heartbeat, record his symptoms. He performs breathing exercises. 

(Hannibal Lecter is out there. Where ever he is in the world, he will return. He will come back and tie up his loose ends.)

He takes another 10mg of valium after checking his watch. He may be a failure but he can still prescribe himself a proper dosage.

He chuckles humorlessly at that.

The only entertainment is the irregular passing of time really, but when in the late afternoon, the hours slow down and drip past he feels, the attack has finally worn itself out. 

He feels comfortably numbed, no wonder after three valiums.

It’s a miracle he isn’t fast asleep. Anyone else, with a lower tolerance would be knocked out for hours.

Frederick would need at least 40mg to even feel a thing. Throughout the years at the BSHCI he has regularly drugged himself—not to the point of developing an addiction, but to the point of developing a … resistance. 

It had been a demanding job. Another reason to quit.

Only when the sole light in the room is the TV, he gets up and pours himself a drink. Uncharacteristically he doesn’t bother looking for his wine glasses, but just grabs a water glass standing on the counter.

The wine feels nice, like velvet, a warm blanket.

Just as he empties his glass, a loud knock makes him drop the glass.

"Jesus,” he curses, and then opens. He knows that knock by now.

"Will,” he says, then adds, "Graham.”

Will Graham is standing in the exact same position like a few times ago, his fist raised in the air, his hair disheveled looking, a bit mad as if he was about to knock the door down.

"Would you like to come in?” he asks, but only in an ironic way since Graham is already stepping past him.

"Maybe next time, you could consider calling ahead?” he asks. His tongue feels a little heavier than he thought.

Groaning he picks up the shards of the wine glass.

"You switched off your phone,” Graham replies accusingly, then turns around to look him straight in the eye.

Frederick blinks. Graham has intense storm-colored eyes. He finds himself averting his eyes, uneasy.

"I did,” he mumbles, leaning on the kitchen counter, "maybe you could have deduced I want to be left alone? Too much to ask from a person with highly developed empathy?”

Graham takes the salt shaker. "That helped last time, right? With the stains on the carpet?”

Frederick takes the salt shaker out of Graham’s hand, careful not to touch him, and puts it back on the counter. 

"Please don’t help,” he says, taking a kitchen towel which he throws onto the carpet.

The room is moving in a lazy, almost comforting swirl around them. 

"Frederick, are you … _drunk_?”

Frederick.

He shakes his head, trying to grin in a convincing way.

"I am just a little … tired,” he says. It’s hard not to slur.

"You didn’t leave your apartment today.“

"Have you been watching me?” Frederick opts for incensed and outraged, but it’s hard to maintain that expression of anger. All he wants is to walk back to that couch and sit down and maybe have another drink.

"I parked across the entrance,” Graham says.

"For how long?”

"Maybe a few hours,” Graham admits without batting an eyelid. "Your car was still in the garage, and I thought you’d probably not be on foot. I asked the reception staff and they confirmed you did not leave the building today.”

"You _were_ watching me.” 

Frederick doesn’t know if he should be flattered or annoyed. Both maybe. (Well, and he should also be concerned obviously. Even he can tell this is not healthy behavior, but with a man like Will Graham the phrase "healthy behavior” loses all its meanings.)

Graham shrugs, then gets the Dyson out of the cupboard and vacuums around the spot to get the shards. Frederick watches, somehow unable to stop him. He can’t really be bothered now. With another shrug, he stumbles to the sofa and sits down.

Graham finishes vacuuming, then flops down onto the sofa right beside him, his shoulder rubbing Frederick’s, and his thigh touching Frederick’s thigh.

"Downton Abbey? Seriously?” he asks, pointing at the screen.

Frederick realizes he can’t even muster the energy to be embarrassed. It’s nice to not feel fear, to not care actually. The valium has numbed his amygdala he thinks, although he knows that’s not what really happens in his brain.

With Graham sitting beside him his fear of Hannibal Lecter seems almost insubstantial, absurd.

Graham feels nice. 

Immediately upon coming to this realization he moves to the other side of the sofa, as far away from Graham as possible.

When he moves to pour himself another glass of wine, this time into a plastic cup standing on the coffee table, Graham’s hand is on top of his and for a moment Frederick has no idea what is going on. Confused he looks at Graham, who takes the cup away.

In his other hand he is holding the bottle of valium.

"How many did you take?”

Angrily he snatches the bottle out of Graham’s hand and just out of spite, takes a sip directly from the bottle.

Graham managing to irritate him through his valium-induced haze of indifference is a big achievement actually. 

"I had one in the morning, not that it’s any of your business,” he says.

"Bullshit,” Graham says.

Frederick doesn’t answer, just stares stubbornly at the screen and a white, pale Lady whatshername having her hair brushed and people carrying silver trays with food.

"I like Downton Abbey,” he says.

"I figured,” Graham says, "seeing you’re watching it. Voluntarily, with no one forcing you.”

"It’s an incredibly stupid show,” Frederick says. 

"I'm not disagreeing.”

Graham is watching him from the side, and Frederick feels suddenly hot and uncomfortable in his t-shirt and sweat pants so he stops talking for a moment. 

„Are you ok?“ 

Frederick shrugs. Shrugging seems to be his preferred way of communication today.

Graham continues watching him from the side.

„Are you sure?“ 

„Perfectly fine,“ Frederick mumbles.

 

When he wakes up the next day, he is in his bed, under his blankets. His phone is charging on the night stand. 

It’s ten o’clock.

When he treads out into the living room, he sees Graham has carried all the dirty plates and glasses to the sink. 

Before he calls Cara, who has left a few messages on his phone, he rehearses by saying "Hello” loudly so his voice doesn’t come out too raspy.

 

At exactly eight o’clock, shortly after Frederick has finally managed to take a shower, wash his hair and put on jeans and a sweater, Will Graham knocks at the door.

Graham shows him some books about fishing he has bought, as if Frederick is interested in fishing. There is a very vague memory in the back of his mind though, a short image of Will Graham talking about fishing and Frederick, high on valium and red wine and _Downton Abbey_ , just nodding along.

He might have said something in his haze, encouraged Will Graham. 

Graham is unusually enthusiastic, smiling more than usual, pushing the books around the counter, slipping one open and showing him colorful images. It’s intriguing to see Graham so lively, so excited.

"Well, if you’re really serious about coming out and try fishing, we have to get up a bit early,” he says.

What?

_What?_

"I try to be at the creek by five,” Graham smiles at him, "I can pick you up though, so you can get a bit more sleep in the car. At that time there won’t be traffic.”

"Er,” Frederick does more nodding, not wanting to betray he doesn’t remember the conversation. Bits and pieces are coming back now, unfortunately. 

At some point he did fake enthusiasm for Graham’s hobby. Which was clearly a gigantic mistake.

"Great!” Frederick hears himself say to his utter horror, "I’m ... er ... really curious!”

Graham bestows a toothy smile on him, so dazzling, Frederick nearly takes a step back. He has never ever seen Graham so satisfied. If he were still a practicing psychiatrist he’d be proud of himself. Who knew Graham could make sweeping gestures, touch him and talk non-stop?

He looks almost like a cheerful, happy guy. 

Graham produces another DVD he bought, a foreign movie, still wrapped in cellophane. (Frederick nearly laughs watching Graham wrestle with the packaging. There isn’t much funnier than watching grown men trying to open plastic wrappings of objects.)

It’s a good movie, about two mountaineers in WW2 or so, but Frederick can’t really concentrate. Graham is a bit of a talker during movies. He also fidgets a lot (not so surprising).

"God, I can’t watch this,” he groans repeatedly, whenever something sad happens, like a character dying. 

"Seriously?” when one of the protagonists is going to do something stupid. 

At some point Graham is wiping a tear from his face.

And he is so pretty.

Frederick forces himself to stare at the screen, busies himself with relaxation techniques and breathing mantras. 

He has always, always been painfully aware of Will Graham's beauty, from the first time he laid eyes on him. There were so many moments in the past where Frederick admired his cheek bones, the fragile, exquisite jaw, the color of his eyes, the long black lashes or the disheveled curls. 

While Graham was under his care in the BSHCI, his obsession drove him to take a particular hostile stance towards Graham. At that time he mistook it for professional distance, but afterwards he realized that nothing about his behavior towards Graham was „professional“. Was there not a sting of warm, guilty pleasure in seeing Graham suffering–baring his throat when he was trembling, did his mouth not feel particularly dry when Graham’s hands clenched and unclenched, and when he, during a trying session, begged him to stop? Did he not enjoy Graham begging? Did he not enjoy in holding power over Graham?

He knows all the answers to these questions, and it is one of the most baffling moments in his life that he is capable of resenting himself. He tried to avoid viewing Graham as a human being, and by subjecting him to all these treatments and in caging him, he had (in vain) attempted to objectify him, turn him into an animal he could scrutinize.

He (successfully) suppressed any notion Graham was suffering and in pain so he could selfishly stay in control of his own erotic obsession.

What does that make him, Frederick wonders.

It makes him a coward, a weak, mean-spirited coward.

A monster as well, albeit a different kind of monster than Hannibal Lecter. Hannibal Lecter is, in his murderous, cruel ways, a fascinating kind of monster, an admirable predator, someone who abides and lives by his own rules. Even the way he was hiding and masquerading had style, a certain savoir faire. 

Now, Graham is sitting only a few inches away from him, completely unaware of Frederick’s dark thoughts. He gasps at something happening on the screen, shifts.

Frederick blinks and turns to the screen where a guy is hanging on a rope above the abyss.

Graham throws him a quick glance, pointing at the screen, "I quite like this movie,” he says, "it’s pretty great.”

Frederick has enough. He fumbles for the remote control and pauses the DVD.

Graham, turns towards him, his brows raised.

Frederick opens and closes his mouth, realizing he cannot speak. Graham doesn’t press. He patiently waits for Frederick to speak. However when he decides to keep his mouth shut and continues to play the DVD, Graham reaches for the remote and pauses it again.

"There's something you’d like to tell me,” he states, not unkindly. It’s funny how Graham seeks eye contact with him, to the point of ducking his head, and how Frederick has to avert his eyes to avoid looking.

"I don’t know what you’re doing here,” Frederick says, pointing at him and himself. "I’m not sure why you want to be my friend. It’s not as if we have a connection.”

Graham inhales, opens his mouth to interrupt, but Frederick holds a hand up.

"Is it the fact that I immediately expressed my keen desire to study you like an exotic animal, as soon as you stepped into my office?”

Graham blinks, but remains silent.

"Or is it how I treated you while you were a patient and prisoner in my hospital, that makes you seek out my friendship?”

He is struggling for breath, a bad sign—he wants to come across as cold and collected, but he’s headed towards bordering on hysteria. If he only had Lecter’s ability to always be in control of his emotions, even when he isn’t.

"I am gay,” he says loudly into the silence, "you should know that, Mr. Graham. I thought you did actually, what with your… gift.”

He doesn’t look at Graham.

"I am gay,” he repeats, "I like cock.”

Graham continues to stare at him.

"That’s why we can’t sit beside each other and enjoy a movie together. Maybe others can, but I can’t. I can’t sit beside you and pretend to enjoy myself, because…”

_…because I want to sleep with you._

"I’m not a guy you can ‘hang’ out with. I won’t be your fishing buddy who’ll just have a few beers with you. We won’t ever be watching soccer in a sports bar with each other. I’m not that type of man.”

Graham gets up slowly, arms hanging down limply at the side but Frederick refuses to look at him, staring at the screen.

"I’m sorry,” he says and is weirdly confused that he really, really means it. 

He’ll miss Graham. 

God, he already misses him.

He’ll miss his quiet, accepting presence, his abrupt laughter when watching movies, the way he covers his eyes, when he can’t watch something. Part of him rails at him for speaking, but another part is also relieved. It’s better this way he tells himself, better than to uphold this straight charade. It took only three visits for Graham to insinuate himself into Frederick’s heart, and who knows what would have happened in the next weeks.

"I thought you should know,” he says weakly.

Graham shakes his head. „I don’t care, Frederick. I don’t care about—“

„But I do,“ Frederick says.

„What do you mean?“

When Frederick stubbornly remains silent, Graham nods.

„Let’s finish this movie off another time,“ Graham says.

"Yes,” Frederick says, "see you around.”

When the door falls shut, Frederick  turns up the TV to drown out the silence inside him. Fittingly the movie ends with everyone pretty much dead, so there.


	11. The Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [notmyyacht](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoamooseketeer/pseuds/cocoamooseketeer) for betaing this.

During the course of their next dinner, Cara has to snap her fingers twice in front of him to get him back to reality. Every time he blinks, apologizes, pretends to eat.

His mother continues speaking, and after an embarrassingly long time he realizes it’s about him and his career at the BSHCI.

"This is all you father’s doing,” she says, with a slight bitter edge in her voice, "he never gave you the love you needed, and then you went and wanted to be a surgeon, just to please him.”

_Jesus._

Over the table Cara is watching him.

"I thought you wanted him to go and study medicine?” she asks, "I mean you took double shifts and all to pay for the books. I pushed him, but you pushed him too.”

_I am sitting right here, between you, but let that not keep you from talking about me as if I’m not in the room._

"I wanted him to be happy,” his mother says, turned to Cara, "I thought that’s what he wants to do, so I let him be. And of course I wanted him to be successful, that’s what mothers do. You children always resented me for us being poor and you missed your father, who was I to go against your wishes?”

Silence descends over the dinner table. Cara shuffles her food around, looking at her plate with a frown. His mother turns around to look at him. She has the clear and yet warm eyes of someone who has suffered and forgiven a lot.

"It was my own decision,” he says finally, "if you pushed you only pushed me because you wanted my best.”

For a reason he can’t explain, he leans forward and kisses her cheek, noting how dry and paper thin her skin feels.

"And I was a stupid boy back then. I had no idea. I hope you can forgive me, mama.”

Cara and his mother both sit perfectly still for a moment.

"Wow,” Cara says but nothing more.

His mother hugs him so tight, Frederick nearly chokes. He hugs her back, fully aware that he hasn’t held her for years. When did she become so frail? When he was a kid she used to be such a solid presence. 

Cara gives him a lopsided smile.

Later his mother lays out desserts in front of him, cupcakes, muffins, cookies. Like in old days he and Cara snark at each other, fight over chocolate cookies, then later over the TV remote control. Like in the old days, when Frederick loses out to Cara (as always) he gets his revenge by delivering sarcastic comments on the program she chooses to the point she throws a pillow at him. Of course it’s a bit of a show they put on for mom, but Frederick feels a sense of comfort in temporarily regressing into their childhood.

For a few moments he is thirteen again, and nothing bad has happened. He has not been cut open and nearly murdered, he has not been shot in the face. He has not yet adopted this unctuous, slick persona, has not yet become the scheming liar and fraud he turned out to be in the end, has not yet even begun to realize who he is. The world is still a simple place then, and he cannot help but long for it.

Mom packs them also a bag with cakes and tupperware full of food, with the universal mantra of all mothers: "You look so thin!”

Cara has no qualms in emptying an entire tray into a plastic container and stashing it into her oversized handbag—she is working full-time and has barely time to feed herself she says. They say their goodbyes, Frederick leaving first, in a hurry to walk down the stairs unobserved. He can maintain a pretty straight walk now, with the scars hurting a bit, but stairs are still hard—he needs to grip the rail and use his arms to help him move forward, leans on his walking stick and he doesn’t like Cara and mom to see.

As he is walking down, he  remembers he forgot the food his mom has packed, and he walks back to retrieve it. 

The door is still open, as Cara is standing in the hallway, probably on the phone or still chatting with mom.

"—need to take better care of him,” he hears his mom say.

He freezes.

"I am trying but he hardly picks up his phone and he always puts up this act. You know him. He’d never admit something’s wrong,” Cara says.

"He has nobody,” mom laments, "he needs someone. He shouldn’t be by himself.”

"Oh, come on, mom, he’s been alone his entire life,” Cara calls out, "Also, I tried to set him up with a friend, remember? I have my own life too, mom, I can’t be spending my free time with trying to find matches for Fred.” 

Cara sounds exasperated.

"He… just looks so lonely. It breaks my heart! And he was never good at making friends! ”

"Mom!”

"Don’t tell me you can’t see it! He always alienates people—he doesn’t mean to, but you know!”

There is a slight pause.

"I do what I can,” Cara finally says.

Frederick silently returns to his car and drives home.

In his bathroom he undresses to take a shower and studies his reflection.

He has always secretly envied other boys as a child, and even more as young man—completely untouched by crippling insecurities, so self-confident and assured in their privilege. He had always felt shy about his body but later he had come to realize that his shyness had not necessarily been connected to his body, but to his desires.

Over the years his shoulders have become broader. He gained weight—always took care to eat and to train, to look larger than he was really supposed to. His belly hides the fact his hips are narrow. His legs used to be muscular as he used to run almost every day—short distances in a close by park, running uphill to add bulk to his calves, but now they reverted to their original rather slender shape.

He is already aging. There are wrinkles around his eyes, and they don’t disappear when he stops smiling. There is a bitter line around his mouth, carved deeply into his cheeks. His eyes still look like foreign objects in his face, as if they don’t belong there, green, with black lashes. 

If he could burn his shell and start anew he would.

He brushes his teeth, washes his face, goes to bed. In bed he stares at the ceiling, _not_ thinking about Will Graham.

 

"Frederick. Wake up.”

Hannibal Lecter’s voice is so close. The man must be standing right next to the bed, bending down. He can feel his breath ghost over the thin skin behind his ear.

He can smell red wine, expensive cologne, tweed, blood.

The shadows are moving, things lurking in them, whispering. 

"Stay with me,” he can hear Gideon’s sharp voice, can feel the sharp stinging slap, and he whimpers.

He cannot move. 

He tells himself to stay calm. He can feel his legs, but he cannot move them. He cannot move his head.

He can only move his little finger, everything else seems to be paralyzed by some unknown poison. He moves it up and down, in the hope moving will somehow activate his other limbs.

"Please,” he begs, "please let me move.”

He knows it’s just sleep paralysis, listing the symptoms in his head—the intruder experience, the immobility caused by a mechanism to shut down his body in preparation for REM sleep, the difficulty of breathing, the hyper-vigilante state—he is _technically_ familiar with the condition but he has never experienced it until shortly, has never known how deeply terrifying it is.

No matter how hard he tries he cannot convince himself Lecter is not with him in the room. He can feel his presence so clearly, it is _impossible_ —

There are Lecter’s measured steps again, leather soles clicking on hardwood, circling the bed, and he grits his teeth as he tries to break his body free from this bond.

"Time to wake up,” Lecter says, and his voice sounds so much rougher and rawer than he had ever heard him speak. This is not his smooth, cultured voice. This voice is like rusty metal, iron screws and gravel. It is full of all the awful, bloody truth Frederick had deep down known all along.

He can hear heavy doors fall shut, people screaming and yelling behind them, drumming their fists, scratching their nails bloody. All their accumulated terror and panic of their last moments fill his mind.

Frederick tries to scream, wills himself to open his mouth, but all he manages is that same shaky exhale he managed a few nights ago. Hannibal has taken his vocal chords away. Hannibal has taken his voice and locked it away.

"No,” he wants to scream into the dark room but his body is merely lying in the dark, his mouth opening and closing like a trout, pathetic.

Pathetic men like him deserve to die. There can be no mercy for pathetic, weak creatures. 

Hannibal’s face, in his coldness resembling a death mask, slowly emerges from the dark, like a corpse drifting up to the surface of black water.

"Please no.” 

Tears are leaking out of his eyes, he can feel them cool on his temples.

(There is still a part of his mind, frantically telling him his brain tricking him, but what if he will be locked into this nightmare and never find a way out again? What if he can never wake up and this is his punishment, his hell?)

Finally he can trigger a response in his left hand—the little finger moves, then the ring finger. He can lift his left arm, and he grasps the edge of his bed and just pulls, and the slide of the cold, damp sheets underneath him, the movement of his entire body, wakes him up. Whatever got hold over his body lets go and lets him access control over his limbs.

He falls onto the floor, his jaw connects with the wooden boards, his elbow lands on an awkward angle. His legs are shaking.

When he turns on the light, Hannibal is gone. The apartment is silent, apart from the hum and periodical clicking of the heater.

He stays on the floor until he can be sure that his shaking has subsided somewhat. When he gets up, he nearly doubles over in pain. Frantically he looks for his phone on the nightstand, then presses the button to call Cara.

He aborts the call immediately, presses the cool surface of the phone display against his sweaty forehead.

_No no no not Cara. I can’t do this to her._

Graham’s number is in his call log and without thinking he presses the call button with his thumb, watching the green light flare up on the screen.

He ends the call, resists the urge to fling the phone from him.

_What the fuck am I doing._

The phone rings. He can see it vibrating on the floor. 

It’s Graham of course.

Frederick waits two, three rings until he picks up. He deliberately lets his voice sound sleep-roughened.

"... Yes?”

"You called me.”

Graham sounds wide awake, but then he shifts and Frederick can hear the faint rustle of bed sheets.

„Oh, I think I did, but I only wanted to turn off my alarm—I must have mistakenly pushed the wrong—.”

Even to himself this sounds like bullshit, but Graham pretends to buy it.

„I see.“

"Thank you for calling me back,” Frederick says stiffly and apologetic. "I apologize for waking you.”

"That’s okay,” Graham assures him, but the tone of his voice sounds unconvinced.

"I … have to go back to bed now,” Frederick says in his most sleepy voice possible, "Sorry once more for disturbing you! Good night!”

He hangs up, and realizes his entire face feels hot with embarrassment. 

He just made a complete fool of himself. He knows Graham has not bought a single word of his excuse, and he just randomly called him, in the middle of the night, and then lied about it like a child and just because—

_because I was scared._

He is still scared. The remains of his nightmare are lingering in the corners of his mind. 

It’s odd how his scar throbs and burns as if his skin is on fire. As if someone is clawing him open again.

Maybe he should get himself some clomipramine just for a while, although he dismisses the idea within a moment—it takes weeks to take effect and he has had so far only two short episodes, most likely caused by his recent intake of valium and alcohol, bouts of insomnia and stress.

(Then again most of the stress is caused by Hannibal Lecter still being on the loose, probably in that very moment feasting on some poor rude Parisian, and _that_ stress is not likely to abate in the future.)

With the light on, his bedroom looks innocuous. Nothing bad can happen here. There is a concierge in the lobby. He is surrounded by other tenants. There are night guards in the parking garage.

He is safe, he tells himself, he is safe.

_Nobody is ever safe._

Slowly he pulls himself up, leaning with his back against the side of the bed.

Someone knocks on the door.

"Dr. Chilton?"

"Yes?” Frederick gets up, using the bed to support himself.

"Please open the door,” another voice says.

"I’m fine, I just—"

"Please _open the door_ , Dr. Chilton.”

It’s the night concierge.

"I would like to sleep now, thank you!” he calls out, but before he has finished his sentence, they knock again, louder, then he hears someone slamming their body against the door.

Frederick limps to the door and opens.

Before he can say anything, a uniformed man grasps his arm and pulls him aside, then another man enters with a gun, searching the entire apartment. The concierge is standing a bit further behind, speaking to a suited man who looks like the manager.

Frederick leans away from the gun, presses himself against the wall beside the door.

"Are you alone in the apartment?” the man who searches his apartment, asks, as he comes out again.

"Yes,” Frederick says, confused, "what is going on here?”.

"Are you absolutely sure there is no one else in the apartment?” they man’s voice is lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.

"I’m okay,” Frederick says. 

"Apologies for the inconvenience,” the guy says, "we received a call that you may be in danger.”

Frederick frowns. Who would—?

Oh.

"Will Graham,” Frederick says.

"Yes,” the concierge confirms, "he was worried, and since we were informed about the er, recent events we thought we better check.”

"We didn’t yet call the police, since all our CCTVs were clear and showed no signs of suspicious activities.”

"Thank you very much for your diligence,” Frederick says, aware that he is only wearing his pajama bottoms and a dark t-shirt. Experimentally he lays a hand over his stomach, just to see if the material is damp with his blood, but of course it was just all in his mind. 

He is alright.

The concierge shows him the call button for the reception and the emergency call button on the phone.

After everyone has left the apartment, he calls Will Graham.

Graham picks up immediately.

"You’re okay?” 

He can't fend off that brief notion of warmth that someone who isn’t supposed to care, cares—not that it’s personal.

Frederick has not much confidence in his abilities as a psychiatrist left, but he is sure of that one thing. _It is not personal._ Graham would do this for anyone—Frederick finds that realization touching. How often has he looked at Graham, when he thought himself unobserved, and detected the same look he imagined his stray dogs would have—lost, sad, and fearful but with so much compassion in his heart. Graham can’t help but to care just the way some people can’t help but being selfish, greedy or murderous. Graham’s brimming, overflowing heart is not a choice he made. It’s a curse he endures.

It feels strange to be touched by pure and simple goodness, but also sad, for a reason Frederick can’t suss out.

He should perhaps tell Graham that if he can find friends (or lovers) who are as loyal and faithful as his stray dogs are, he need not see his ability as a curse. Maybe tell Graham, that if anyone, he has the strength to make others care.

"I lied. I did call you before,” he says instead.

Graham is silent for a while, then says, "Yeah. I know.”

"I … had a nightmare,” Frederick forces himself to confess. 

"PTSD, you know the drill,” he adds wryly, "I panicked and then I called you. Then I …. hung up.”

"Okay,” Will Graham says, "I'm glad you’re okay. I was afraid for a moment that Lecter is back. And that he's at your place and maybe you can’t speak freely.”

Frederick swallows.

"I dream of him,” he says, and suddenly his voice is nearly gone again.

Get it together, he thinks, man up, and he clears his voice, sits up straighter.

"Well, it’s just nightmares,” he says dismissively.

"What happens in those dreams?” Graham’s voice sounds very close. Frederick looks out of the window where the black of the night is slowly fading into a steely blue.

At the other end Will Graham clears his voice.

"Look. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t force you to remember.”

"It’s alright,” Frederick is looking out at the window, at the brightening sky. "I feel better already. Talking about it serves to set things into proportions, to highlight the irrelevance of fears that seem real when unspoken.”

It’s the stuff he used to tell patients. Did he always know how hollow these words sound?

He hangs up and goes to the window, pressing his palms against the cool glass. The rising sun fills him with hope and manages to make him, if briefly, forget his nightmare.

Even if Lecter would come back why would he take the risk to harm him? Frederick only mattered when Lecter set him up and framed him for his murders but now he is irrelevant.

Irrelevant.

A good word as any to describe himself, Frederick thinks. In this gruesome story, he matters to no one.

(Yet Will Graham has called him and visited him and alarmed security when he thought he was in danger.) 

His window lies southeast, which is why he can follow the slow climb of the sun into the sky. The cool dusk soon turns yellow and warm light crawls over him. 

Lecter will be focused on Will Graham. He cares about no one more than he cares about Graham. This time, when he strikes at others, it will only be when he perceives them as obstacles between himself and Graham.

Maybe he will offer him again to leave the country with him, but it’s hard to believe Lecter would be that besotted.

(It was hard to believe the first time around already though so who knows.)

No, this time Lecter will kill Graham.

Yet, in a monstrous, twisted way even Lecter is a stray in Graham’s collection, a lonely hungry wolf lured by Graham’s warmth, curious and wanting.

Lecter never wanted to destroy Graham. He didn't need Graham telling him to know that. It was evident. The fact he nearly did has more to do with the fact destruction is hardwired into Lecter’s nature, inseparable from his actions even when Lecter doesn’t wish to harm—he doesn’t know how to avoid pain. It's not that Lecter doesn't know pain—but he feels pain differently than others.

Frederick does not want to think about all of this, but the thoughts come unbidden now. Ironic how he struggled for an insight into Will Graham’s psyche during his stay at the BSHCI and now he doesn’t even need to try.

He wants the essence that fills Will’s heart, Frederick thinks. He wants that quality he glimpsed in Graham—that abundance of empathy. If the files about Lecter contain halfway accurate information, Lecter may have been damaged by traumatic events in his youth. Or at least that would be the conventional reading. Maybe a part of Lecter recognizes parts of himself he had lost long ago in Will and yearns for them. Maybe Lecter has no warmth in himself left, no true emotion, but he wishes to warm himself on Will Graham’s heart. 

Everything about Graham is ridiculously genuine, and perhaps that is what Lecter wishes to devour. In his predatory mindset he might believe he can just take this from Graham, like the liver he took from his victim, the heart he carved out, the spleen he stole. 

Or maybe Frederick is dangerously romantizing Lecter’s motives.

(If Frederick has learned anything from his profiling debacles it is that Lecter fits no template, no profile.) 

He does not know how long he sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor in front of the panorama glass but the sun is a bright yellow when he is startled out of his thoughts by a loud knock on the door.

Despite him not responding, the knocking continues.

For all his shyness and meek temper, Graham has the door manners of a troll. He pounds rather than knocks, as if he’s about to break the door down. Does he not know the concept of door bells?

"Yes, I heard you,” he calls out irritated, just to stop that infernal noise.

When he yanks the door open, Graham pushes past him again, without even politely waiting for Frederick to ask him in. For someone who so much insists on others to respect his personal space he seems to be just fine invading others, Frederick thinks grimly.

"I was worried about you!” Graham says accusingly.

Frederick blinks.

He swallows down a biting remark and instead says, „Thank you.”

It is nice of Graham to drive all the way from wherever he lives now just to check up on Frederick. 

He just doesn’t understand it.

"You sounded really shaken,” Graham says, staring at the carpet, "so I thought I better check.”

Graham shoots him a quick glance, and Frederick feels suddenly naked.

"I see,” Frederick says. He goes to his bed room to look for a dressing robe.

Graham follows him, even into the bedroom and Frederick has to turn around at the threshold to stop him.

"Excuse me?” he asks in a sharp and incredulous tone.

Graham mumbles an apology and trots a few steps back, but lingers.

Within a few moments all touching thoughts about Graham’s purity have evaporated and only pure irritation remains. 

He rummages in his drawers, can’t find the robe and then changes into a pair of jeans and a sweater.

"Thank you for your concern but I am well and alive," he calls out. 

When he opens the door again, Graham is right there, in front of the door. Frederick ignores him and walks past him into the kitchen to prepare his coffee.

"Oh, you’re making coffee?” Graham says hopefully.

Despite his irritation with Graham, Frederick feels a little contrite.

"Would you like so—?”

"Yes,” Graham says emphatically and takes this as an opportunity to kick off his shoes, take off his jacket and sit on the kitchen stool.

"I’ll grind the beans.”

Graham really likes the coffee grinder. 

Frederick waits until the water has boiled and he has poured it into the french press. They both watch the ground coffee swirl, then settle. Graham inhales the smell.

"That’s a much nicer smell than instant coffee,” he comments.

Frederick nods absentmindedly. He might have failed treating Graham’s many neuroses and personality disorders, but at least he turned him into a coffee aficionado. Small victories.

"Mr. Graham,” he says.

Graham looks up from the french press, blinking owlishly.

"We used to be on a first name basis,” he says.

„ _You_ were on a first name basis with me, mostly to express your contempt,” Frederick says, again irritated, "What I mean to—"

„I had a right to express my contempt for your methods. Your methods _were_ contemptible.”

„You're right,“ Frederick says. 

"What?”

„You heard me. Do we have to go through this again? You know I regret my actions. Do you want me to apologize forever to you?“

"So you do feel sorry,” Graham states.

"Well, yes. But what I—"

"That is much better than your insincere apology, Frederick.” 

Graham smiles at him, only Frederick can’t tell what kind of smile that is supposed to be. Is it a smirk? Is he mocking him? Is it just a twitch? Graham is kind of twitchy—even when he is not nervous or uncomfortable, there is always some movement in his face, a tic in his left eye, or his jaw or even around his nose, which is unfortunate because it mars his beautiful face, distracts from his angelic features.

 _Beautiful face. Angelic features,_ Frederick rolls his eyes at himself, _get a grip already._

Wait, did Graham just say "insincere apology"?

"This is ... progress, don’t you think?” Graham’s hand inches over the counter towards him.

Frederick looks at Graham’s hand in not-quite-horror, sensing what Graham is planning to do.

"Stop doing whatever you’re doing.” 

Frederick did not intend to say it out loudly. 

Graham doesn’t ask what he’s not supposed to be doing but he tilts his head.

"I can’t,” he simply says.

"Maybe you misunderstood what I tried to tell you last time, but what I meant was that I don’t do friendships.”

Graham raises an eyebrow at that. 

"I view other men as sexual objects. Nothing more,” Frederick says as coldly as possible.

"That sounds like a sad existence,” Graham says.

"I don’t care for your judgment. I don’t need friendship. I have merely physical use for people.”

"Why are you lying to me?” Graham inquires mildly, "why are you painting this picture of yourself?”

Frederick pours the coffee into a mug and puts two spoonfuls of sugar into it, then pushes it over the counter, towards Graham, who takes the cup. His fingers brush against Frederick’s hand and he pulls it back as if burnt.

"Ah,” he says in a mocking tone, meant to cut, "that thing you do!” 

Graham only snorts.

"Why don’t you tell me then about myself? Who am I according to you and your empathy gift?”

"You’re scared,” Graham says.

He takes a sip of coffee, then another.

"I really like your coffee,” he says enthusiastically, then looks at Frederick.

Frederick only shakes his head in disbelief and rolls his eyes.

"You’re jittery. You stopped taking care of yourself because you can’t abide the look in your eyes in the mirror. You stopped going out. You spend too much time in your apartment. You are lost. You don’t at the moment know who you are.”

„Graham, I was being ironic. I have not the slightest interest in your opinion of me,” Frederick attempts to sound dismissive.

"I usually ignore irony,” Graham says and takes another sip. 

"I noticed.”

"You created this persona–the expensive suits, the rigid posture, the arrogance. All of this, every part of the person you used to be, the man you showed me during my time at the hospital is a fabrication you have carefully manufactured, but at some point in your life you looked at it, at the person you have become. You feel regret about things you have said and done, and I suppose even more about things you haven’t done, you haven’t said. You wish to undo what you are now, but you are crippled with the fear that once you remove all those layers of pretense, there might be nothing left.”

Frederick sets down his cup, hiding his trembling hands under the counter.

"All you wanted, all you want is a simple life. Your heart was never in this, not in the medical school you attended, not in psychiatry, even this career you were pursuing—you were going through the motions, thinking it should be good enough. After being shot in the face and surviving an attempt on your life you shouldn’t have survived, you are left with a sort of urgency. You ask yourself if you should re-think the way you live your life, re-evaluate your existence because that is what you do when you survive a traumatic event of these proportions.”

"Graham—"

"When you dream about Hannibal paralyzing you, dream of him preparing to kill you, underneath your panic you also feel relief. Is that not what you truly fear? Not Hannibal and the threat he poses, but your inability to fight him, because deep down you desire your own destruction?”

"Get out,” Frederick says. He is acutely aware of his bared teeth, of every tense muscle in his body. He is shaking, and he should be able to stop himself from shaking. This is just Graham with his neat parlor tricks trying to unsettle him. He should not do him the favor and fall for them. 

He tries to breathe, but suddenly there is no air left in this room, and why can’t he stop shaking?

"Get the fuck out of my apartment.” 

It is supposed to sound commanding, but even in his own ears it sounds more like pleading.

Graham is suddenly standing beside him, a hand on his shoulder.

"It’s alright, Frederick,” he murmurs, and Frederick closes his eyes.

He is being pulled into an embrace, warm and firm.

Graham’s plaid shirt smells of slightly sweat, dust, cologne. Frederick has never smelled anything sweeter, anything more comforting.

He is clinging to him. He is holding onto Graham, still shaking.

Graham pulls back and looks at him, holding his neck. His thumbs are brushing his jaw, like a lover.

"Sh,” he says, as if talking to a child.

"Get the fuck away from me,” Frederick wants to snarl.

"I am so sorry,” he wants to say.

"Don’t go away please,” he wants to say.

"Stop this,” he wants to say.

"Don’t stop.”

He is looking at Graham’s (kind, beautiful) face and he knows he shouldn’t. 

Graham seems to search his eyes for something. One of his thumbs grazes the scar on his face. Frederick knows he should not, but he lets him. It feels too good, to be touched with this kindness. If that kindness is not aimed at him, but simply part of Graham’s emotional make up then he is not strong enough to reject it.

_You have no pride._

He wants to ask why—but then soft lips are covering his. He knows in this moment he is lost. He has finally reached that point of no return. Graham tastes of cinnamon and coffee and some nameless, exotic sweetness. When Graham parts his lips, Frederick grabs the sides of his face and pulls him closer, then licks the warm, welcoming inside of his mouth. Somewhat shockingly, Graham tilts his head into the kiss.

When Frederick pulls away, he can see how dark and unfocused the other’s eyes are, the red, parted lips.

He takes Graham’s hand and wordlessly pulls him into the bedroom. They sit on the bed, and again, it’s Graham who begins kissing him again, greedier this time. He tugs at Frederick and they fall back onto the soft mattress. Frederick feels an overwhelming shyness. Is he Will Graham’s first man? Or is Graham one of those "straight” guys who need to get fucked by a man once in a while (but then go back to their straight lifestyle and pretend it never happened)?

Although Graham’s kisses are intensifying and his little moans are getting needier and needier, Frederick manages to pull away. 

Graham struggles, wants to pull him back. His cheeks are flushed.

"Graham, do you know what you’re doing?” Frederick asks as calmly as possible.

(He barely can hear his own voice over the roar of his blood in his ears, over his frantic heartbeat).

Graham bites his red, swollen lips, then pulls Frederick into his arms, so close their foreheads touch.

"I haven’t done this before,” he says, "I made out with some guys when I was fourteen. And a guy once gave me a hand job while I jerked him off… but we were watching straight porn. So… not very experienced.”

Before Frederick can comment on that or say anything, Graham kisses him again, in such a hungry, sweetly wanton way, that Frederick finds all questions regarding his sexuality or his consent superfluous.

Graham’s hand is on his crotch, rubbing him through the denim, and Frederick is embarrassingly hard already.

He pushes gently against Graham’s chest, until he is lying on his back, looking up at him. It occurs to him how Graham is looking straight into his eyes, without fear or any hesitation. If anything it appears as if Graham is the one calming and grounding him, by threading his hand through his hair, caressing his scalp and neck, and making soothing noises.

"It’s alright,” he whispers, when Frederick hesitates, then unbuttons his shirt and discards it onto the floor. He pulls off his t-shirt underneath, comes up and kisses Frederick again, sucking at his lips.

He shimmies out of his pants, pulling off his boxers and socks as well and is suddenly naked, smiling up at Frederick, who is nearly breathless.

Graham is perfect. Wherever Frederick looks, he sees perfection: the delicate collarbone, the smooth ivory skin, the red lips, the brown nipples, and the flat, white stomach, the surprisingly dark, red cock, half hard, the foreskin already pulling back to reveal the glans. Frederick shakes himself out of his stupor and kisses and mouths Graham’s bared throat, dips his tongue into the clavicle, then kisses his way to one of the nipples, which he gently rolls between the lips. 

Graham gasps and arches up against him.

Frederick sucks the hardening nub and teases it further with his tongue. When he pulls off, the nipple is peaked and stiff, glistening wetly. Frederick gives the other nipple the same treatment, and cherishes the whimpers and moans falling out of Graham’s mouth. 

He lays his palm against Graham’s scar, curious. 

Graham pushes himself up on his elbows, smiles down at Frederick.

„It could have been worse,“ he simply states, to which Frederick can only nod. They were both incredibly lucky the surgeons could stitch them back together—they’re lucky these scars are the only physical traces left. It could have been much worse.

Graham spreads his legs so Frederick can lie between them, and he feels Graham’s hard prick against his lower belly. Soon he can’t resist and he snakes a hand between them and grips him. 

"Yes,” Graham hisses, "Yes, please.”

Frederick moves down, peppering kisses onto his stomach, even mischievously tonguing his belly button (Graham gasps) then licks Graham’s cock.

It’s slender and veiny and his balls are already taut. 

Frederick takes it in his mouth, and Graham shouts, flails his limbs. His reaction encourages Frederick and he begins to lick and suck in earnest. 

(It doesn’t bode well for him, how much he loves instantly everything about it.)

Graham tastes slightly salty/sweaty underneath his balls. He’s got a surprisingly thick patch of almost black, soft hair. 

When Graham begins to emit small mewling sounds, Frederick changes the angle, cradles his balls with his left, then begins to take Graham deeper. 

He wants to fuck himself on Graham’s gloriously hard cock. It’s like a hot steel pipe, and Frederick knows how perfect it would feel in his ass. 

He wants to bury himself in Graham. The way Graham writhes and moans and arches up, he seems to yearn for being fucked, seems to ache with desire. The way he spreads his legs and lifts his butt off the bed as if he is begging Frederick to shove his cock into his hole.

Frederick begins to rub the soft skin of Graham’s perineum, slick with his spit. When he feels Graham responding enthusiastically, he begins circling his pucker.

Graham makes a sound in the back of his throat, something between a whimper and a groan.

The moment he pushes his index finger into Graham’s hole, Graham comes with a shout, his limbs twitching, looking utterly surprised as if he did not expect that result. Frederick closes his eyes as he swallows Graham’s warm, pulsing spunk. He loves the taste. He can’t get enough of Graham, licking at the slit of his softening cock.

Frederick grips his own cock, and begins to jerk himself off. Graham looks at him through heavy-lidded sated eyes, but he sits up and licks his hand, then reaches for Frederick’s cock and begins to stroke. 

"Yes, come for me," Graham whispers, and his hand feels so slick and warm and good.

When Frederick begins to twitch Graham increases the speed of his hand, twists it and thumbs the slit. It makes Frederick think of Graham touching himself that way—he must like it that way. 

"Tell me what to do," Graham's hoarse voice is close to his ear.

"It's good," Frederick breathes—it's too good. Graham shifts into a more comfortable position, then kisses Frederick. 

"Alright, I'm gonna try something," Graham mumbles, then shimmies down.

Sensing what Graham is about to do, Frederick reaches down. "You don't have to suck me off, just because I did," he says.

Graham only smiles, then experimentally licks his shaft. 

Frederick throws his head back. 

The next thing he knows is Graham's hot, wet mouth sucking at the tip of his cock, his hand continuing stroking the shaft. When he dares to look down, he is blown away by Graham's closed eyes, his hollowed cheeks. The tips of his tongue plays with his slit and oh, god, Frederick is coming already, like a teenaged boy—he tries to pull Graham away, but Graham only bats his hand away and takes him deeper.

Frederick comes with a shudder, biting his hand to prevent crying out and he feels Graham swallowing and licking. It takes him a long time to come down from his high. He opens his eyes, sees Graham's face hovering above him.

"How did I do?" he asks, looking too pleased with himself.

"It could have been worse," Frederick lazily says.

Graham laughs.


	12. Approaching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for betaing this, [notmyyacht](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoamooseketeer/pseuds/cocoamooseketeer)

Usually Frederick falls asleep instantly after sex. 

He doesn’t particularly like to engage in conversation with his partners afterwards and sleep is one way to escape. (He is always relieved to wake up a few hours later and find the men gone leaving nothing behind but the faint odor of cologne on the sheets. Sometimes they leave witty post-its with messages. Most of the people he meets don’t care or have learned to pretend not to care.)

Today though he doesn’t feel that particular, sweet pull of post-orgasmic exhaustion so he just fakes it, rolls away from Graham.

Graham grabs his shoulder and turns him onto his back. His face is uncomfortably close. 

„Seriously?“ he says, „you’re that kind of guy?“

„Fucking makes me tired,“ Frederick says, turning around again.

„I can’t sleep,“ Graham complains, as if this is somehow Frederick’s fault, „I’m wide awake.“

Frederick stares at the ceiling. 

„We had sex,“ Graham states the obvious, „how does that make you feel?“

Frederick rolls his eyes, but doesn't reply.

„Believe it or not but I am actually a funny guy,“ Graham says. 

„If I get the choice, I’d rather not believe you,“ Frederick says in an acidic tone.

(Every moment now Graham will leave. Even people who are kind to him and make him believe—hope, eventually leave. Frederick will not be fooled.)

 _You wanted it,_ a strangely blank voice tells him, _you wanted this longer than you care to admit._

Who would not want to sleep with a pretty man like Will Graham? 

Frederick had had a lot more inconvenient and inappropriate crushes than him. On a scale of zero to ten, Graham would be a comfortable five. 

The larger issue is that churning in his chest, the peculiar hollowness. (Something has shifted, just now, from one moment to the other, and … everything is different.)

There must be techniques to exorcize this.  Maybe he can find a mental trick to counteract this.

_My name is Frederick Chilton. I am in Baltimore and I am not falling in love with Will Graham. I am not in love._

He does not want to but in the end he gives in to temptation and turns his head, pushes himself up on his elbow and looks at Graham.

In the afternoon light he looks tired. It’s apparent that he doesn’t shave very carefully. There are tiny nicks and cuts all over the lower half of his face. Graham probably doesn’t like shaving, avoids looking at himself, always shaves in a hurry, eager to be done as quick as possible. 

He seems to often scratch the soft skin underneath his chin—Frederick can see the marks, a nervous habit most likely. 

Graham’s ears are not very clean. He’s got slight dandruff. The curls of his dark hair are sticking to his forehead and to the sweaty back of his neck.

One (very short, barely visible) hair pokes out of Graham’s left nostril. The pores on his cheeks are slightly enlarged.

His breath is stale, a bit bitter. 

His lips are so beautiful they nearly cause Frederick physical pain. 

He traces them with his index finger, unable to resist. They feel so soft and warm. 

When he looks up, Graham is looking at him with an unreadable expression. His eyes are nearly turquoise in this light.

Frederick can feel the post-orgasmic chill settle in Will Graham’s bones, can see uneasiness wash over him, and pulls back.

 _Of course you had to go and fuck a straight guy,_ his inner voice mocks him.

„You know, I don’t regret it," says Graham. He takes Frederick’s hand and kisses the finger tips, "I feel really good. There is no need to worry."

Frederick forces a grin onto his face, bares his teeth.

"I’m not worried," he says dismissively, "may be hard to believe for you but you are not the first straight guy I fucked."

Graham’s eyes flit over his face, and Frederick closes his face, averts his eyes.

He hates Graham a little for the way he reaches out and rubs his knuckles over his cheek bones, the way he moves closer and kisses him, without fear or shyness.

Maybe he feels envious of the lightness in the way Graham acts towards him. 

"Don’t," Graham just says, smiling against his lips, then snakes out his tongue and licks Frederick’s lips. He is pressing himself against Frederick, looping his arms around his waist, caressing his back.

And Frederick … is weak. He curses himself for his weakness, but there is nothing to be done about it, except for parting his lips and let Graham in. He can feel already the destruction that takes place in him, the crumbling of himself inside, the exposure of vulnerable heart tissue. He feels he is bleeding and cannot stop it.

"Graham," he says finally, trying to push him away.

"Call me Will," the infernal man says, then kisses him again, hungrily, "Do you like to be fucked? Or do you want to fuck me?" 

As a way of answering, Frederick rolls Graham around so he lies on his back, and grinds his hard-on against him.

„Have you ever been fucked before?“ he asks, consciously crude, watching Graham’s face very carefully. There is no twitch of distaste.

"No," Graham admits, "I’ve stuck my finger up there when I jerked off and I had a couple of girl friends who stuck theirs up when they were sucking me off. Felt great. One of them had such a great technique."

He seems to be thinking hard.

"When I was in college I dated a girl who was very open-minded. And delightfully filthy. She wanted to peg me, and I was quite keen on it. Unfortunately she met someone else at a party, and married him. And I have never met anyone with who I was comfortable enough to bring that even up."

He hums.

"Oh, and there was a woman I was interested in last year. I think if she would have dated me, she would have been open-minded and curious enough. I was kind of imagining it a bit when I was jerking myself of. There was also—"

"So, in short, you’d like to be fucked," Frederick concludes Graham’s stream of fond erotic memories, trying to _not_ roll his eyes again.

"Yes," Graham says, "that is if you like that. If you’re into topping. If not, we can do it the other way round."

Frederick snorts, "I see you’re familiar with the lingo."

Graham pouts. "Although it might shock you, it’s 2015 and I know what the internet is. I have Wifi at home and I watch porn. And imagine, I know guys who are gay. Basically I am not a 19th century hermit."

He laughs at his own lame joke, and Frederick tries to not find that adorable, the way, the skin around his eyes crinkles when he smiles, and the way he has dimples.

"So, Dr. Chilton," Graham says in a low seductive voice, stretching himself out, "how do you want me?"

His smile is first a slight upwards twitch of his mouth corners, but then it widens into a dazzling, toothy grin.

Frederick reaches down and finds the warm, sweaty cleft of Graham’s ass, and rubs the pad of his fingers against his hole, again observing Graham’s face very closely.

Graham doesn’t flinch. Instead he spreads his legs further and tilts his hips up. 

"Mmmh," he nearly purrs, throwing his head back.

Frederick can feel him clench underneath his finger. He doesn’t actually have that much anal sex—at least not as much as Graham probably imagines he has. Penetrative sex is quite intimate. He doesn’t want to explain to Graham that he often finds anal sex too messy and rather opts for jerking other men off, sucking cock, or frotting. 

He does want to fuck Graham though, desperately so.

God, he is going to fuck Graham of all people. 

It’s intimidating how all of a sudden a sexual fantasy he has secretly harbored is becoming reality. He feels a bit dizzy, when he retrieves the lube from under his bed.

"If you wanna go to the bathroom you should go now," he says nonchalantly.

"Oh! Yes, good idea!" Graham actually gets up and walks to the bathroom, naked.

Frederick can hear the fan being switched on, then Graham leafing through magazines.

Playing with the cap on the lube bottle Frederick stares at the ceiling. After Graham flushes, he calls out, "I’d better take a quick shower too."

"Yes, please," Frederick replies drily. He pours a bit of lube onto his hand and begins to play with his still soft cock. 

Stoically he listens to Graham showering.

Graham re-appears again, his hair damp, walking with a slight grimace and a limp. "I used your stuff and now my bum tingles."

"What stuff?"

"Just whatever you had. The green stuff," Graham lowers himself gingerly onto the bed, "just wanted to be really clean down there."

"You used my shampoo to wash your anus," Frederick states blandly.

Graham shrugs. "What? Was it very expensive? There is still a little bit left. I think."

"You used my peppermint shampoo, you imbecile," Frederick says, "and for the record I just bought it last week."

"At least I’m really clean inside now, I think. I used quite a lot."

Frederick decides to not comment that. Graham ducks his head, looking sheepish, then he moves closer to Frederick.

"I’m ready. If you’re over the loss of your shampoo we can continue where we have left off."

Without waiting for Frederick to reply he begins to kiss him on his lips, then his neck. Frederick opens the lube bottle and squeezes more lube onto his index finger. When he circles Graham’s hole with it, Graham gasps. He teases the crack with his knuckle, presses down with his finger pad, then enters Graham, who closes his eyes at the intrusion.

"Ah," he says.

Frederick thinks he is not bad when it comes to prepping his partners for anal sex. He likes playing with his partner’s hole, making them gag for it, getting them wet and open and ready. 

Will Graham soon pushes back against Frederick’s finger in his ass. He seems to really like his nipples to be played with.

He pushes Graham’s legs up and further apart, and Graham immediately places his hands under his knees, holding himself open, without hesitation as if he’s spread his legs for men his whole life. Frederick shimmies down, so he faces Graham’s already hard cock, his pretty balls, the dark taint and his hole. When he licks at the rim, Graham’s emits a guttural moan. Encouraged Frederick licks more, nibbles and sucks at it. With the thumbs of both hands he spreads the hole, then licks into it, fucking Graham with his tongue, whose cries turn hoarse.

God, Graham’s hole looks delicious, all dark and purple and puffy and pouty and begging for cock the way it clenches and unclenches. There are a few stray hairs in his cleft, also already soaking wet with lube and spit and somehow the view excites Frederick so much more than the regular shaved and bleached porn star butts. This here is amazingly real, and immediate. (He can faintly smell the rest of his peppermint shampoo already drowned out by Graham’s musk.)

He fucks Graham now with three fingers and Graham is babbling and begging like a slut.

Hard to believe, he hasn’t done this before.

"I think I need it now," he says brokenly, "please … oh fuck …"

Frederick doesn’t think it’s time yet, and continues to massage Graham’s insides. He pushes himself up on his elbows to be able to see Graham’s face, then crooks the fingers towards himself and begins to slowly push them back in.

"Fuck," Graham suddenly yells out, and his cock jumps. A thick strand of clear pre-come drips onto Graham’s belly.

"You like that?" Frederick asks (unnecessarily).

"Oh god, fuck," Graham pants.

„It’s your—„

„I know what it is. I’m not an idiot, ok,““ Graham grits out, then moves and wriggles his hips. 

„Ok,“ Frederick enjoys stroking that spot, enjoys Graham’s blissed out face.

Frederick smirks down at him, then slowly pulls out his fingers. He pours more lube onto his palm, then slicks his hard cock with it. Graham watches him, his cheeks flushed, his lips almost blood-red and his eyes dark and huge. He looks so needy.

Frederick slides his fingers in again, just to keep him open and relaxed, then pushes his cock lightly against the rim. Graham moans.

„Ready?“

„Ok, go.“

Slowly Frederick pushes into Graham’s body. 

"Fuck," Graham says again, but now his teeth are gritted, and tears are leaking out of the corners of his eyes.

"Relax, Graham," Frederick advises him, "relax around me.“

Graham groans and pants. Frederick lays his hand onto Graham’s taut belly, caressing the slightly raised scar. 

„Do you want me to stop?“

Graham seems to consider it.

„Stop trying to push me out,“ Frederick tries to help him. 

"I’m trying to but you’re fucking huge," Graham grits out.

„A compliment, how nice,“ Frederick answers sardonically.

"It’s a complaint. It fucking hurts.“

"You just have to relax."

"Shut up, it’s not possible to relax with that thing in my ass."

Frederick begins to move, in the hope to get Graham to open up but in that moment Graham’s legs circle his waist and lock him in place.

"Don’t move," Graham hisses.

Frederick holds still, waiting patiently for Graham to adjust. 

"This might not work," Graham says finally, "it’s … it’s too much."

Graham’s ass feels so perfect. The tightness around him, the heat of his body. If Graham makes him pull out he might actually cry, maybe even beg.

After another while Graham says, "Okay, you can start moving, but be really, really careful, ok?"

Frederick holds Graham’s hips and begins to slide in gently, then out again, forcing himself to not thrust into Graham as he wants to. He feels Graham slightly relax around him and Graham’s face looks less pained but… more attentive, as if he’s listening to a sound inside his head.

"Does it still hurt?" Frederick asks. 

Graham shakes his head, biting his lower lip in concentration.

"Now it just feels really interesting. Full," he says.

Frederick changes the angle slightly, by gripping Graham’s hips, entering him a bit deeper, and all of a sudden, Graham closes his eyes and arches up.

"Fuck, yes," he calls out.

Jackpot.

"Oh fuck," Graham whimpers, writhing.

"You like cock in your ass," Frederick states, trying to not sound smug, and Graham moans.

"Oh yes," he says breathlessly, "I had no idea…"

Frederick thrusts harder and faster now but Graham doesn’t mind any longer, he edges Frederick on, crying and begging and moaning, and Frederick savors every filthy sound Graham makes, every plea, every praise.

Graham’s cock twitches and jumps every time Frederick’s cock brushes his prostate, his dark, purplish cock head spits strings of pre-cum onto his white belly. 

God, Graham is beautiful. How can one man be so beautiful?

"I think I’m coming," Graham pants, then arches up, his eyes squeezed shut. His entire face is flushed now, the flush covering his neck and chest as well.

Frederick fucks him hard and fast now. Graham begins to shake. His insides clench repeatedly around him, involuntary orgasmic spasms.

"Oh fuck," Graham cries out, and with something akin to wonder, Frederick sees Graham’s cock twitching, his balls and the shaft pulse visibly, then release thick, white ropes of come. Graham continues crying and moaning and writhing through his orgasm.

Frederick, can feel his cock being squeezed tightly by Graham’s orgasm. The feeling is indescribable. For a moment he feels a part of him is cut loose. He never wants to leave. He never wants it to end. 

It was not supposed to feel this good.

When he finally comes he closes his eyes, trying to imagine someone else than Graham, to distract himself, but Graham clenches around him, then pushes back and Frederick bites his hand to stifle his cries.

Sweetness and heat engulfs him, liquify his spine and for a moment everything inside him is white light.

Groaning he shoots his load into Graham’s ass feeling reather than hearing Graham encouraging him in a breathy voice. He keeps sliding his dick in and out for a while, addicted to the feeling of Graham’s body around him, that wet slide of his own cum in Graham’s hole.

Finally he pulls out, looking down between Graham’s legs and it’s glorious. His hole is gaping and red and puffy and white cum is seeping out, running down his thighs.

It’s breathtaking.

He bends down and licks. 

Graham twitches.  
   
"Hngh," he moans, eyes half-lidded.

Frederick laps carefully, in a soothing way, swiping the broad side of his tongue over the rim. Graham mumbles terms of endearment Frederick refuses to hear.

He cannot afford to come undone. Not now. And he won't.

Graham reaches down and Frederick feels hot fingertips stroking his forehead, like a blessing.


	13. Too Close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks [notmyyacht](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoamooseketeer/pseuds/cocoamooseketeer) for beta'ing this mess! 
> 
> I've gone back and edited a lot after she was done, so any remaining errors are mine.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Please note, that after this chapters all subsequent chapters are unfortunately unbeta-ed. I'm not a native English speaker, so if the quality of this fic was already subpar it'll be pretty shit from next chapter onwards. (I'm selling this really well, don't I?)
> 
> I had not only one but SEVERAL betas who first volunteered to beta my fic, then after I sent them my draft refused to reply to my messages/asks/submits/chats, even after I begged them for weeks for _any_ kind of response.
> 
> To save myself the (considerable) amount of trouble I decided to not have my fics beta'ed any longer. 
> 
> (Consequently all "You should have this beta'ed/You need a beta" comments will be deleted.)
> 
> I sincerely apologize for any inconveniences this might cause and I absolutely understand if you'll stop reading anything I write from now on. 
> 
> Thank you very much for your understanding!
> 
> Caro
> 
> * * *

When he wakes up, it’s almost dark. He peers at Graham’s face in the dark, studies the bony jaw, the small, slightly upturned nose, the red, delicately shaped lips, the strong forehead, the deep set eyes with their exquisite feminine beauty, the long, curly lashes, the translucent lids.

An intense, several years lasting psychotherapy has informed Frederick of his own (many) weaknesses and his (very few) strengths. One of his weaknesses is that despite his efforts to pretend otherwise, he is prone to latching onto people who show him any sign of kindness. He knows his core is soft and weak and vulnerable, and only his disciplined show of smug arrogance keeps him somewhat safe from people who might discover and ruthlessly exploit his neediness. He is well aware of the pathetic, lonely boy lurking in the corners of his soul. 

His only strength is to know what he is. It’s the only courage he has ever possessed—the ability to know himself and despite his self-loathing somehow convince the world he is indeed fond enough of himself to not question his abilities and lacking talents. Not only has he always known—he has accepted at the core of his heart what a fraud he is.

It is of course, a questionable talent. Being dismissive of himself was not so hard. The measurements he takes of his various shortcomings are for his own amusement. 

It all changes the moment he wants something. He wants Graham. Like Lecter, he wants to reach inside and have what Graham has, take all this goodness, all this heart and keep it to himself.

(Some things are not for him.)

He startles when he feels a warm palm pressed onto the side of his face. In the waning light of the day he can see Graham has awakened.

For a long while they don’t say a thing, just let the darkness fill the room, creep into the cracks and seep into the corners. The shadows are taking over and the light has acquired the bluish grey hue of dusk.

Then suddenly and unexpectedly Graham moves forward and buries his face in Frederick’s neck while pressing his entire body against him, entangling his legs with his, almost as if he can’t get enough of him.

For a moment Frederick lets himself wonder how it would feel like—to have someone who wants _him_.

"You smell good," Graham half whispers.

Then he pulls back a little to study Frederick’s eyes and a slight expression of worry flits over his face. 

"Please don’t," he just says. He kisses him, open-mouthed, and confused Frederick realizes it's some sort of plea.

"What?" he asks. His voice is hoarser than he'd like it to be.

"You’re over-thinking," Graham states, "you’re …", he narrows his eyes, "you’re afraid. Do you still want to resent me?"

Frederick opens and closes his mouth, then turns his face away from Graham.

"Do you still resent me for calling Jack that day?" Graham asks softly. Frederick can feel Graham pressing himself against Frederick’s back.

He wants to shake his head, but then re-considers. It’s not so bad to let him think that. Leverage, always a handy thing.

"I know you… have forgiven me, on a rational level, but you might still harbor resentment," Graham says against his back, "and I don’t know how to resolve this except for being patient and … to wait."

After a while Frederick reaches behind, seeking for Graham’s hand, patting his hips, his thigh. Surely the way Graham presses all of his body against him, means nothing. 

Graham entwines his fingers with him, squeezes his hand, than peppers these tiny, dry kisses onto Frederick’s neck and jaw and Frederick closes his eyes, basking in the warmth.

Graham is right, he thinks. He _is_ over-thinking. Why not enjoy what he is given? Who knows how long it will last? Graham will walk out of here soon to never return, in a week, in a day, in an hour. The only certainty really is that he _will_ leave.

With that thought, he turns around, pushing Graham onto his back and lies on top of him. Graham doesn’t complain about the weight, just grins up at him, lazily and sweet, squinting.

"You have very green eyes," he says, tracing his lashes with an index finger.

Graham stares directly up at him, fearless and affectionate, stares directly into his eyes, unflinchingly. 

If a man like Graham can be carefree, maybe so can Frederick. 

"I’m not used to …" he wants to say affection, kindness, touches but luckily keeps the words from spilling out. He may not be the smartest one but he's not that stupid.

"To what?" Graham asks, pressing his hands onto his shoulder and caressing the muscle down to the elbow.

"To people staying over," Frederick says quickly.

"I can imagine you just fuck your men, then kick them out," Graham muses.

Frederick shrugs, neither confirming nor denying but trying to look uncaring and aloof.

"Well then, thank you for letting me stay," Graham says, twisting his body up and peppering kisses onto Frederick’s face. They feel like the dry, warm nose kisses cats sometimes give, things people mistake for tokens of affection, but are in reality territorial markings, "thank you."

Whatever cutting remark Frederick wanted to make, is now washed away underneath the onslaught of Graham’s kisses. He rubs his face against Frederick’s cheek.

"You’re like a cat," he says to Graham, more affectionately than he intended. (He curses himself immediately for slipping up.)

„I don’t know about that—I have seven dogs!“ Graham laughs.

He pulls Frederick down and throws his arms around him. 

"I am actually an octopus!" and he proceeds to circle his waist with his legs and grope him.

Against his will, Frederick laughs too. It seems not even _he_ is immune against post-coital silliness.

He can clearly see Graham doesn’t show this side to many people, and this knowledge is warming and anchoring. (He will remember this, even when Graham has left.) 

"You’re a lousy octopus," he half growls, trying to break free from Graham’s grip, but all they do is roll onto the floor, taking blankets and pillows with them.

"You are not a qualified judge of that," Graham says, then tries to grope his butt.

"I have to hold you with all my tentacles so you don’t slither away," Graham says.

"I’ll show you slithering," Frederick wriggles free of Graham’s embrace and the movements he uses to do that make both of them laugh.

"See, you can be silly, too," Graham announces.

"I don’t think an octopus gets to judge my intelligence!" Frederick replies with mock indignation, but Graham is distracted, peering myopically under his bed.

"Ha!" Graham cries out, and reaches for something underneath.

Frederick’s porn collection.

"I assume you don’t have gay porn in your house," Frederick says. Graham leafs through the mags, leaning on his elbows.

"Not really," Graham admits, "I mean I watch stuff online. But there is something …endearing about a hardcopy collection, like a stack of magazines, with some of the covers loosened and dog eared. I wonder if some of the pages are sticky."

He lifts one and looks at the centre spread. 

"I can tell you your favourite pics," he says, before Frederick can stop him and grabs the mags, then begins to search them in earnest, by carefully thumbing through the pages, holding them down, studying the thin spines, and true enough Graham manages to have four magazines opened on the pages Frederick used the most often to wank to.

Suddenly quiet, Graham studies the images and Frederick is painfully aware how the pale, curly haired models are all on the slim, pale side, bright coloured doe eyes framed with black lashes and soft, dark mouths looking all the same. It is laughably easy to see what type Frederick likes. 

Men who look like Will Graham. He is so obvious it’s humiliating.

Frederick reaches over and flips them shut again, pushes the magazines back under the bed.

"You knew anyway, didn’t you," he says.

Graham regards him quietly.

"I … assumed," he says, "back in the BSHCI, when you used to come to my cell, staring at me."

"Of course you can't be deceived," Frederick says in a bitter voice, "and now you have your confirmation."

He shrugs.

"What more convenient than to go for these kind of experiments to a man like me, who you know with certainty, wants you."

"Bullshit," Graham says softly.

Frederick snorts and averts his eyes.

"You know it’s bullshit," Graham says.

Frederick shrugs again.

"I don’t care," he says coolly, "I don’t need your truth. If the fucking is enjoyable, who am I to complain."

If he hopes to drive Graham away from him, he doesn’t succeed. Graham only smiles, but his eyes are sad. 

"In the hospital you were someone else. You are different now."

He strokes Frederick’s cheek, as if soothing a child.

"I don’t care for the man you once were. I like the man you are becoming. I want to get to know him."

Graham smiles.

"He’s hiding somewhere behind these beautiful green eyes," he says, then sidles closer.

Frederick lets him.

They could move back onto the bed but somehow they’re comfortable on the thick carpet. The way Graham fits himself into his arms, refuses to move away from him.

"You’re hot," Frederick mumbles at some point, pushing at Graham, but Graham only tightens his embrace, "then turn the heater down, I’m not letting go of you.“

It makes Frederick ridiculously happy, and that voice in the back of his mind pipes up again.

_Careful. Be very, very careful now. Happiness is dangerous terrain._

All of a sudden he hates his own stupid happiness. Stupidity got him nearly killed. 

Finally, when it’s night, the sound of Graham’s stomach grumbling gets too loud to be ignored. They flip through take away menus and order spinach pizza. While waiting for the food one of them has the glorious idea to take a shower together which obviously ends in another round of sex, with Graham sucking Frederick’s cock.

"Instruct me, Dr. Chilton," Graham teases him, but Frederick shakes his head, gripping the glass door, his legs feeling like jelly. "You already suck cock like a pro. You don’t need instruction. Maybe more practice.“

He smirks.

Graham grins and licks the head of his cock, then rubs the spongy head lightly over his cheek, and alone that view makes Frederick come. Just, as they finish their second shower, the door bell rings. Frederick opens the door in a bath robe, but Grahams sneaks up from behind him and begins to fondle his bum, and Frederick fails to keep a straight face. He manages to close the door to a slit so the delivery guy doesn’t get an eyeful of a butt naked Graham.

The delivery guy, who has probably seen it all, doesn’t bat an eyelid at the two middle-aged, giggling guys, just rolls his eyes. To him the weekend can’t come fast enough. 

Frederick gives him a generous tip.

"Enjoy your night, you two," the pizza guy says, tipping his baseball cap and is off again.

They eat their pizza, lying on the sofa, clicking through various channels. Frederick tries to stay aloof and distant, but it is hard, with Graham being clingy and giggly and affectionate.

They speak about things, they have never mentioned to others—another thing Frederick finds disturbing, yet irresistible: the ease with which he confides in Graham. Past affairs, anecdotes, even a childhood memory here and there. No grand secrets, for sure—Frederick is done with secrets—but moments he thought buried and forgotten. In Graham’s presence everything comes to the surface. 

He is chatty and shouldn’t be. Whenever he resolves to not tell him more about himself, Graham comes up with some story about his own past.

Graham tells him of a woman he once met at a party who was a brilliant writer—only when they were in his bed room, she suddenly crouched down and started meowing and crawling towards him, then jumped up and toppled him. Subsequently he hit his head on the night stand and had to go to hospital where he needed stitches. Needless to say their romance did not continue after that adventure. Inspired by Graham’s anecdote they’re both silly, imitating big cats on Frederick’s bedroom floor. 

Graham’s attempts at meowing are funny though and then he mock-attacks Frederick and starts licking his face.

"Oh god, Graham, this is disgusting!" Frederick tries to fend Graham off, but Graham is simultaneously tickling him. 

"What? I am a big sexy cat and can’t understand your human gibberish!" Graham says, proceeding to lick behind Frederick’s ear.

"Cats don’t attack people and then lick them!" Frederick protests.

"You have never ever had a cat, have you?" 

"Neither have you!"

(They are indulging themselves, that much is clear. They are _coping_ , both of them.)

They continue to wrestle around, and of course, one of them starts with the kissing, and then the other begins with the groping. 

"Graham," Frederick pulls back, "are you clean?"

Suddenly Graham growls and bites him savagely into his neck. 

"What was that for?" Frederick rubs the red mark Graham’s teeth have left.

"You’re still calling me ‚Graham‘," Graham says, "I told you to call me Will."

Graham straddles him.

"Say it," he demands, "I know why you keep calling me Graham. For a psychatrist your compartmentalizing tactics are pretty amateur."

Frederick tries to wriggle out, but Graham keeps tickling him.

"Say it!"

"Graham, stop this!"

"WRONG. ANSWER!"

Then Graham finds that soft spot between his ribs, digging his fingers into it.

"Come on, say it, you know you want to!"

"WILL!“ Frederick half-screams, trying to pry Graham’s fingers off him.

Graham stops immediately, looking down at him.

„We were on a first name basis in the hospital,“ Frederick grits out, "I didn't think you want to be reminded."

It’s like probing at old wounds, never healed. 

Graham’s expression is curious now.

"That was different," he says, swallowing, and adds, "Frederick," with this little twitch of his mouth corner that could be sardonic or nervous or both.

"Really? I am still the same man, Will," Frederick lashes out. "Do you think I have miraculously turned into a good man, just because I was cut open and shot?“

He truly expects Will to get up and leave. 

Instead Will takes his hand, and interlaces their fingers, and Frederick stares at their hands together—Will’s pale fingers with his blunt nails covering Frederick’s slightly olive-tanned, soft ones. 

„So do you intend to interrogate me, Dr. Chilton?" he asks in a soft voice, "want to perform some tests on me? Want to analyze me?"

Frederick only manages to shake his head.

"Are you planning to pump me full with hallucinogens and observe me while I’m off my head? Are you preparing to write a book about this unique cocktail of neuroses I harbor in my mind and get famous and rich? Hm?"

Frederick shakes his head but Graham bends down to him, so close their foreheads are almost touching.

"Would you like to put me back into this cage, lock me in like an animal and watch me through your cameras, see what makes this clockwork tick?"

"Stop," Frederick begs. Each of Will’s whispered words viciously claws into his heart.

"See," Will says, his eyes a little wild, "I know. I can see you’re no longer the man who wanted to poke around in my head. Just as I could see back in the hospital how much you wanted to and used your desires against you."

"Who am I then?" Frederick asks filled with a despair, he didn’t know he feels.

Will’s face changes at that. Frederick thinks Will is looking at him again, piecing him together.

"Good question," Will ponders, "I don’t know that."

"But you know these things," Frederick insists, "you just have to do your thing. Just look.“

Will only shakes his head.

"You don’t know who you are, Frederick," he says, "that's all I can see at the moment."


	14. I Don't Love You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am insanely grateful to [notmyyacht](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoamooseketeer/pseuds/cocoamooseketeer) for her excellent beta work for the past chapters.
> 
> The story will be unbeta'ed from now on. Sorry for the doubtlessly many mistakes & spelling errors but I'm done with sending my stuff to strangers and never ever hearing back from them.
> 
> * * *

Although Graham announces vaguely to leave early in the morning he ends up staying into the late afternoon. Only when it becomes evident Frederick can’t postpone having dinner at his mother’s place any longer, he reluctantly leaves.

Dinner is uneventful. After the copious amount of sex he enjoyed in the last days he is ravenous, but distracted by erotic thoughts of Will Graham. He partakes in the obligatory card game until Cara slaps his arm.

„Ouch, what was that for?“

„What the fuck are you grinning about?“

His mom uses the opportunity to slyly peer into Cara's cards.

„I’m not grinning,“ Frederick defends himself.

„Oh ok, except you are,“ Cara says.

Frederick looks at mom.

„Yes, you are grinning,“ she too confirms, „but it’s not a bad thing, is it? I’m glad my little boy is happy!“

„I’m not happy,“ Frederick protests, „I wouldn’t know how to.“

„Someone got laid,“ Cara singsongs. 

Frederick focuses on the cards and takes a sip of water.

„Who is it? Is it serious?“

„Hardly your business,“ Frederick says with raised eyebrows, feigning aloofness.

The phone in his pocket vibrates and he whips it out within a second without thinking. He instantly curses himself for his lack of restraint especially when he looks up and sees Cara's unapologetic smirk.

It’s Will.

„Hey!“ the text says.

„What are you up to? Are you still at that fancy dinner party?“

Frederick hasn’t told Will about his only social contacts being his mom and his sister but instead hinted at „social obligations“.

„My hosts are urging me to stay but I am just about to leave,“ he types back. 

"Can I come over?"

Frederick stares at his phone, disbelieving. Why would a man like Will want to spend another night with him? It's unfathomable. Someone as attractive as him would get laid the minute he enters the Kingsmen bar, be waylaid by an army of cock-hungry twinks and handsome tops alike. 

He waits almost for a whole minute before he replies, „You can come to my place if you want.“

There. Not too desperate at all.

„I was hoping you’d say that so am actually already on my way,“ Will types back.

Frederick slams his cards down.

„I’ve got to go.“

„We’re not finished here,“ Cara protests. Mom smiles knowingly, but then they both stand, and Cara hands him his jacket. 

„It’s … ah … late.“

„It’s only eight thirty.“

Frederick pretends not to see the elbow jab Cara receives from their mother.

„Say hi to your lover boy,“ Cara calls after him as he leaves, and then he can hear both of them sniggering.

 

Will is more nervous when it’s on him to fuck Frederick.

„I don’t think I’m a top,“ he says half jokingly, „at least not a very good one. My ex-girlfriends were not impressed.“

„It’s very simple,“ Frederick says sharply, „do you want to fuck or not? Can you come with your cock or do you depend on prostate stimulation to achieve a satisfying orgasm?“

Will laughs a short, sharp laugh at Frederick’s crudeness.

„Hey, I’m the one who was straight here,“ he says, and Frederick decides not to ask about the use of past tense in Will’s statement.

Frederick twists underneath, reaches for the bedside drawer and gets condoms and lube.

„I let you fuck me without a rubber,“ Will says.

„I haven’t cleaned myself out,“ Frederick says. 

„I don’t care,“ Will smiles, „I’m not squeamish.“

As if to prove himself, he grabs the lube and squirts it onto his fingers. He skids down, pushing Frederick’s legs apart. Will inserts his finger into Frederick’s hole, and despite the clumsiness Frederick’s mouth goes dry.

"Done this before?" he asks.

Will's tongue peeks out between his lips and his brows are furrowed in adorable concentration. 

"Uhm, I had girlfriends. Stop treating me like a clueless idiot."

"Your girlfriends didn't have prostrates," Frederick says lazily but then gasps as Will crooks his fingers.

"Fuck," he hisses.

Will smiles. 

"Found it."

Frederick can't help but admit to himself that Will is a natural. It takes him two, maybe three attempts to exert the perfect amount of pressure and make Frederick's toes curl. God, he can’t wait to have Will’s stiff cock inside him. Frederick pulls Will’s fingers out, applies more lube onto himself and coats Will’s cock with it. It looks obscenely beautiful.

Frederick wraps his legs around Will’s waist, moves his hips up, then takes Will’s cock and inserts it, angling it in a way that makes him clench immediately. He knows what he’s doing. It’s been a long time since he’s taken cock but apparently it’s like riding a bike.

Will gasps.

Frederick only needs a very short time to adjust to the girth of a hard cock. He enjoys the momentary sting, the pain—it’ll fade soon enough. After a short moment he lets the whole thing slide in, then wait it out again, breathing in and out, staring at the ceiling.

Above him, Will babbles, looking overwhelmed.

A thin sheet of sweat has formed on Will’s chest and his face. His eyes are shut.

„Oh god,“ Will moans, throwing his head back. 

„You like that?“ Frederick asks unnecessarily, „come on then.“

He sets a fast, hard rhythm, painful for him, but pain anchors him. Pain is his friend. He doesn’t want to come too early, doesn’t want to enjoy himself too much. 

_You’re pathetic._

Above him Will’s mouth falls open, and he is looking at Frederick as if he is the most wondrous thing on earth. 

„This is amazing,“ he breathes.

Frederick manages to smirk.

So, Will likes topping. Of course he would.

In the next moment, Will’s hand is on his thigh, calming, stroking up and down, kneading the tensed muscle. Will uses his hand to keep Frederick from pushing Will in with his heels. Instead Will’s thrusts slow down. He begins to deliver shallower, gentler thrusts, angled just perfectly, and now Frederick is arching up from the bed, unbelieving Will fucks him with so much precision and perfection. 

He fucks as if he was made to fuck Frederick.

Frederick manages to open his eyes between thrusts and sees Will’s face above him, watching him intently, then Will begins to thrust a bit faster, and Frederick’s head lolls to the side. 

_Too good_ , he thinks, _too good, too fucking perfect, I can’t … hold off, I’m coming … I’m—„_

He cries out, lost in this haze of pleasure, every thrust hitting this spot deep inside him. Will leans closer to him, and only in the last moment when Frederick realizes Will intents to kiss him, he turns his head to the side, desperate not to give himself away. 

Kissing is generally a bad idea, but in this moment Frederick feels thin-skinned and vulnerable.

Will doesn’t let him. With his left hand he holds Frederick’s head in place, then presses his lips onto his, sucking, licking, moaning. 

Will presses him down with his right hand, then pushes again, with such sweet perfection, Frederick’s mouth simply falls open. Will moves in, moaning even louder, _invades_ him. God, he tastes heavenly. Frederick’s heart soars and he can't do anything about it. 

_Maybe I’ll survive this,_ he thinks nonsensically, but a part of him doubts it. 

Another part of him has stopped caring. He doesn’t withdraw from the kiss, does not turn away any longer, doesn’t push Will off him, he just kisses him back, despite the absolute panic clawing in his chest.

 _„Maybe it’s worth it,_ he thinks, dazed, breathless, _and maybe it’s going to be alright._

( _Is it though?_ the inner voice asks, bemused.)

No one can be that strong. 

_No, it’s just you. You’re fucking weak._

Will moves against him, mumbling some nonsensical praise into his mouth, pushing in hard.

He comes.

He feels himself contracting around Will, hears Will gasp and moan into his mouth. Will’s hands are on him, searching purchase. His hips are rolling into him, his thrusts strong and perfectly aimed.

There is a brief pause, then Will pushes in again, and Frederick’s cock twitches, spurting hot cum between them.

As wave after wave pulses through him, he gives up thinking, only exists in that absolute bliss, that absolute pleasure of being fucked by the man he is in love with.

No power on earth can prevent that happiness singing through him.

As his senses return he becomes aware of Will, clutching at his shoulders, groaning, thrusting deeply and he can feel Will twitching and emptying himself. 

„Oh,“ Will says, as if completely taken by surprise by his own body.

Frederick inhales as he feels the warm wetness around Will’s cock, seeping out of his well-fucked hole. He carefully brings his legs down, grimacing at the pain in his muscles. His knees are creaking. Will shifts slightly, but as Frederick pushes at him, he doesn’t move away.

He mumbles something into Frederick’s shoulder that sounds like a „No“.

The air in the room is suddenly heavy with the smell of sex and sweat and semen. Will presses kisses to the side of his neck while Frederick stares into nothingness, focusing on re-gaining his breath … and his composure.

„You need to get off me,“ he tells Will, „you’re crushing me.“

„I like where I am,“ Will laments.

„I’m glad to hear that, but you’re too hot.“

„Really?“ Will turns to show him a rather silly grin, „no one’s ever told me _that_ before but come to think of it I guess I am not too bad, eh?“

Frederick rolls his eyes. Alarmed he registers, Will’s unexpected ability to unlimited post-coital silliness makes him grin too, though he suppresses it immediately, and like the other times, thins his lips.

„Told you to turn down the heater,“ Will says.

He starts shimmying up and down Frederick’s chest, and their sweat-slicked bodies make squeaky noises.

„Enough,“ says Frederick, without moving.

„Never,“ says Will, still wriggling around, then rubbing his stubbly face against Frederick’s throat and nuzzling him, „I’ll never get enough of you.“

Frederick laughs halfheartedly, and leans up on his elbows. 

„You’re unbelievable,“ he says, cringing internally at the adoring tone of his voice. 

„Yeah, I love you too,“ Will mumbles against his chest.

Frederick’s heart thuds once, really loudly in his chest, and he keeps himself from glancing at Will to see if he has heard it. 

„How about a glass of water?“ Frederick takes Will at his shoulders and dislodges him, then swings his legs over the edge of the bed. 

Will blinks up at him. Soft curls frame his face.

„What?“ 

„I’ll get us some water, I’m really thirsty,“ Frederick says, then gets up, despite the sore feeling in his ass. He goes to the kitchen, and begins to open cup boards and drawers, slams them shut again. When he finds a pitcher he fills it with tap water, rummages around for glasses. He walks to the bedroom with the pitcher, puts it down, goes back to the kitchen and gets the glasses. He puts the glasses down.

He grabs the pitcher and fills the glasses, takes one glass and presses it into Will’s hand, who holds it, looking at him in his wounded way.

„Frederick—„

„You should drink the water,“ Frederick says, not wanting to hear what Will has to say, „we haven’t drunk water for hours. You must be dehydrated.“

Will sets the glass down at his side of the bed.

„Hey,“ he says quietly, „Can we talk about—„

„No,“ Frederick says angrily. He’s surprised at the rage he suddenly feels, at the torment. 

This, what Will is doing, isn’t fair. It’s underhanded. 

He turns around and marches into the living room, and sits on his couch. He switches on the TV, mindlessly watching a game.

He does not look away from the screen, as Will sits down beside him, completely naked.

„You didn’t like that,“ Will says.

Frederick begins to flick through the channels without really watching, angrily pushing the button on the remote control. Will puts his hand over Frederick’s.

Frederick shakes him off, ignoring Will’s wounded look.

„What do you love about me then,“ he asks waspishly.

Will shrugs.

„I don’t know,“ he mumbles, „lots of things.“

„You don’t know because you don’t know me,“ Frederick’s hates how shrill his voice sounds, „I have been through trauma. I have nearly lost my life. Three times. I know that you have lost a lot too but … just don’t assume that—„

 _I have no feelings._ he wants to say, but is glad he stops himself in time. 

„Don’t assume I return your feelings,“ he says instead, „we’re not teenagers. You’re suffering from PTSD just like I do. If you’d stop and only listen to yourself you’d realize how unlike yourself you sound.“ 

It sounds good in his ears, convincing.

Will just continues to sit beside him, his chin pressed onto his chest. After a while he gently takes the remote control out of Frederick’s fingers, then lays his curly head onto his lap.

„I don’t assume anything,“ Will says, „and you don’t need to say anything, like ‚I love you too‘. But you don’t need to be a jerk about it either.“

„I mean well,“ Frederick says, as magnanimous as possible, „it’s not safe for you, to make emotional commitments in your state. You need to be careful. I'm simply looking out for you.“

 _Shut up,_ his internal voice says.

„Shut up,“ Will says. 

Although Frederick knows he should he doesn't push Will's head off his lap. 

Will doesn’t move from Frederick’s lap. Eventually they both fall asleep there, and only wake when the sun is shining directly onto them, late in the morning.


	15. The Pellegrini

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not beta'ed. Apologies.

Several times Will attempts to persuade Frederick to have lunch with him. In parks, cafés, sandwich places, bistros, restaurants. Will’s texts are innocuous. „Wanna grab a sandwich with me? We could meet at Mario’s at 1pm“ for example.

The places he picks are moderately priced and not fancy at all, places someone like Will would feel comfortable—if he were social. 

Frederick recalls how a fellow psychiatrist related an anecdote about Will to him: a few years ago co-workers casually invited Will who, at that time, was still new at the academy to come along to a newly opened Vietnamese place around the corner. Apparently he looked angrily at his opposite’s tie for almost two minutes, pushed his glasses around, first agreed to come, but in the last minute, turned around and finally hissed, „I don’t do socializing“ before running off. Of course most of FBI and especially BAU employees are familiar with a range of social anxiety disorders but it’s rare FBI employees exhibit these traits. The incident served to further confirm his status as some sort of profiler savant. 

(No one asked him to come along ever again.)

Maybe it’s one of these exaggerated stories. There is a lot of gossip around Will Graham. 

Frederick never accepts. He can’t quite explain the sheer panic he feels when contemplating meeting Will in a public setting so he keeps cancelling. Sooner or later he’s bound to run out of excuses but for now Will only lets out sympathetic hums whenever Frederick lies about indigestion, stomach pain, kidney troubles.

(The downside of these lies are the tasteless vegetable soups and questions about his calcium, potassium and vitamin B12 intake Will attacks him with.)

Frederick never calls Will, on purpose. It’s a painfully childish tactic and it’s not about leverage, not something he does to keep the upper hand in the dating game but the few times Frederick tries to call Will he immediately disconnects the call again and he needs a minute or two to get his frantic heartbeat calm down again.

Luckily Will calls him daily. Every time Will calls, he asks if he can come to Frederick’s place without a hint of self-consciousness or pretense. Frederick finds this display of self confidence unsettling. (He has never been a self-confident man. He merely pretended to be one.) 

When Frederick feigns exhaustion, Will begins to wheedle as if he _knows_ Frederick is only pretending, and every time Frederick ends up giving in. His pretense of aloofness collapses like a house of cards under Will’s determination. 

(Although Will has no qualms about inviting himself to Frederick’s flat he never invites Frederick to spend a night at his place, something Frederick takes note of. He doesn’t ask Will so that topic never comes up.)

Frederick deeply distrusts the twinge of happiness he feels whenever Will turns up with organic, vegan food and disgustingly healthy smoothies filling the silence with his chatter but he can’t suppress it either.

(He doesn’t confess his love to him again, thank God.)

One night Frederick returns from his mother’s house, slightly tipsy. As he emerges from Cara’s car, he can see Will sitting in the lobby through the glass panels. 

„Why is that guy looking at you? Is he your friend?“ Cara asks while he’s getting out and taking his bag from the backseat. 

Frederick closes the door.

„I don’t know him.“

„I thought he was looking at you.“ 

„No, you just imagined that—he probably doesn’t even see me.“

Will waves at them.

Cara rolls her eyes, shakes her head and drives off.

Will is dressed in a fashionable dark pea coat, a grey sweater, dark denims. With his clean-shaven face and the neatly combed hair he looks ten years younger. 

„How long have you been sitting here?“ 

Will shrugs. „Half an hour maybe?“

Frederick shakes his head. „But we said ten o’clock, didn’t we?“ 

Will’s smile is unfazed. „I know but I was early. The concierge let me sit here. They even allowed me to use the power socket.“

„It’s only nine.“

Will shrugs again, „I didn't mind.“

He gets up, stows his computer away. 

„If that upsets you I can go home,“ Will says amiably.

„I’m not upset. I am … pleased.“ 

Will beams. Frederick slowly grins back, feeling his face redden.

„Good,“ Will says, „I hoped you’d be pleased!“

Will takes his arm, then his hand. Slightly embarrassed, Frederick wrestles out of Will’s grip, and to cover up the awkward movement, pats Will on the shoulder. The concierge behind the counter smiles at them.

As soon as they arrive in Frederick’s apartment and he closes the door behind them, Will kisses him. Frederick blinks.

„Are you uncomfortable with public displays of affection?“ he asks. Frederick can feel Will smile against his skin.

„Why aren’t you?“ Frederick asks back, using the moment to divest his coat and go to the bath room to wash his hands.

Will follows him, leaning against the door frame. Frederick glances at his pose for a moment—self-assured, his head titled slightly back, one hand in his pocket, the other fiddling with his collar, but overall relaxed.

„I changed,“ he says, then adds with an exaggerated wink, „I met someone.“

Frederick watches him through the mirror with raised eye brows.

„First I thought he’s an awful guy, full of himself, vain and pompous … but he was just too sexy to resist.“

Frederick laughs, and Will grins mischievously.

 

Frederick wakes up in the early morning with Will draped over him, snoring right into his ear. The weak, milky light seeping in from the outside makes Will look inhumanly beautiful, and Frederick feels uglier, more pathetic for it—what is he doing here? Thinking he could have Will. He could never have him. Will was not to be had. If he lets this go on, he will end up getting hurt, and just now he is not strong enough for that.

This whole thing with Will is terrifying. He has never done this before. He had plenty of blowjobs in saunas, furtive gropings and quick fucks in the backroom of Kinsmen—he'd never been shy, just careful. He'd never (let himself) feel anything for the other guy. Sometimes they were pretty enough and then Frederick was inclined to see them more often, but _this_ is new. 

Frederick is moving into dangerous, unknown territory and he is badly equipped for that. 

Eventually Will is going to stop needing to cope. At some, not very far away point, Will is going to stop needing whatever Frederick could provide for him, and leave. He can have sex from anyone. He is already doing far better than Frederick does—while Frederick still relies on valium and alcohol, Will seems happy and balanced, energetic even. The nightmares of the last months have not broken him, or if they did, he put himself together, and is better and more stable than ever before. 

Frederick knows these things can happen. Sometimes a loss, being at the brink of death can have enough impact to change people’s perception of life. 

Whenever Will is with him, Frederick can let himself be carefree, and yet there are moments of truth when Frederick knows he is deceiving himself. In the end Frederick can’t put the broken pieces together. Men like Will are more beautiful for their scars. They’re like these shattered Japanese tea cups mended with pure gold, stronger in the broken places. 

Frederick’s scars disfigure him. Where Will is dignified through his wounds, Frederick turns into an abomination. His scars are red, gnarly angry flesh. Loss and pain have not beautified him the way they beautified Will. 

He gets up and quietly dresses himself, resisting the impulse to bend down and kiss Will, to touch him one more time. 

(He clenches his fists.) 

Instead he slips out of the flat, like a thief, into the cool morning.

An hour later he sends Will a text, telling him he has to go to his mother’s place and only goes back returns to his flat, many hours later when he can be sure Will has left.

 

Will sends him a text the next day and Frederick invents a lie—he’s at a job interview, he texts Will curtly.

The day after he tells Will he is invited to a dinner party. 

And the day after he tells him something else. Will doesn’t stop texting him, but he doesn’t get demanding or angry either. Frederick can’t understand Will keeps texting him no matter what lies Frederick tells him. He would not have thought Will is the persistent type of man.

 

To acquiesce Cara, he begins to look for a house again, although it suits him to live in this rented one bedroom studio. 

Maybe „suit“ is too strong a word. He just finds the idea of purchasing another house distressing. The idea to venture out and talk to people and look at places—at the moment he’d rather pull his own teeth out, but he can’t stand worrying his mom, so he dutifully begins to carry around real estate brochures and show his mom and Cara houses he is supposedly interested in. He talks about applications (he hasn’t written, much less submitted) and job interviews (he hasn’t attended). 

Maybe „looking“ isn’t exactly what he’s doing. 

The loneliness hits him like a punch in the guts. It slices him open, surgically. He is somewhat shocked by the intensity. How could he have let it go so far? Alarmed he self-medicates with valium. 

It’s good he ended it. It would have been much worse a few weeks or months down the road, when Will would have left him (as he would have).

Cara asks about his „new loverboy“. Frederick doesn’t answer immediately, busies himself with shoving grilled zucchini slices around on his plate. When he looks up, he feels his mother’s eyes on his face. She puts her hand over his, presses it and distracts Cara with a question about her new boyfriend. Frederick was never more grateful to his mother than now.

Two days later he runs out of coffee beans. Instead of buying a new bag at the market around the corner he opts for heading down to the little cafè, opposite from his building.

While he is waiting for his order, he notices a sign on the counter:

„We’re hiring!“

He doesn’t really think of applying and yet as he hands the barista his card at the checkout he asks casually, if they need someone with experience.

The blond thin girl at the checkout shakes her head while attaching a cardboard sleeve to his cup.

„We need someone for two morning shifts and an afternoon shift—it’s a part time job, so ideal for students. Training provided.“

To his own utter astonishment Frederick hears himself asking for an interview. The girl looks up at him.

„Junior rates apply,“ she says drily, „are you sure you want the job?“

„I don’t mind,“ Frederick says, „I need a job.“

„Have you ever worked in hospitality before?“

„Yes,“ Frederick says confidently. 

(He worked once as a waiter twenty years ago, only for a summer though at a posh yacht club, dressed in white jacket, serving canapes. He hated it.) 

The girl eyes him critically, then seems to come to a decision.

„Come back at three in the afternoon then. Bring your resume.“

Frederick gets the job, although he lies about his past. He tells Sienna (the blond girl’s name who is the manager of the cafe) he had to leave his former cafeteria job in a hospital due to budget cuts. Luckily she just glances briefly at the name of the hospital he worked.

„I know I’m not the youngest anymore,“ he says, „to be working as barista, but I’d like to have a chance to start anew. I had a lot of bad luck recently.“

Sienna doesn’t mind having to train him but the real motivation he suspects is that he is very flexible with his time. During the interview she asks him twice about his willingness to take over additional shifts.

He starts already the next day, and Sienna shows him how to open up the shop, dismantle the alarm, switch on the lights and the power, get the tables and chairs ready, clean the coffee machine and start it up. Around noon she presses a procedure manual into his hands and trains him to use the eftpos and the cash register—it takes him five minutes. He learns where the recipe book with the coffee drinks is, how to prepare the various beverages and sandwiches.

During the training, Sienna asks him random questions about his past. He knows it’s a bit of a tightrope walk. He was in the news after all, but in this instance he is glad he was just an extra in this bloody tale of murder, cannibalism and mutilation. Most of the coverage focused on Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter and Abel Gideon. Somehow Frederick’s name has been lumped together with the three other victims of Dr. Gideon. At that time it had annoyed him to be overlooked, to be so irrelevant but now he is absurdly grateful.

Frederick likes his new profession more than he thought he would. He also likes his new colleagues more than he thought he would. He likes the customers. After a week he knows all of the team members at the _Pellegrini_ , almost all of the regulars. His coworker Benedict who works the shifts with him, fifteen years his junior, immediately starts calling him „Fred“.

The team members don't recognize him either. It helps that the only picture of him released to the press was an old photograph taken when he just joined the BSHCI, wearing a shiny Dolce and Gabbana suit, a gaudy silk tie and a ridiculous beard (it was the nineties—trimmed goatees were all the rage). 

It’s all clean slate, very tabula rasa. In conversation he brings up his mother and his sister, and notices after a while that the others think of him as a bit of a cooky, mother-fixated loner but that is fine with him. 

He decides to not pretend to be straight any longer. It’s easy—the decision doesn’t have a huge impact on the way he interacts with other people. It’s not as if he has to announce anything—after all he has just met his coworkers. The only difference is that he doesn’t self-censor himself any longer.

He likes being good at a job. In the BSHCI he always felt inadequate, and that feeling of inadequacy used to eat him up from the inside. He used to be a fraud for such a long time, he is completely overwhelmed by Sienna praising him for memorizing the menu so quickly (and the prices), for being able to operate the eftpos from day one without any billing mistakes, for even being able to help out his colleagues when they make mistakes, for being popular with the clients. He falls in love with the big, shiny 9000$ worth San Remo coffee machine, learns its idiosyncrasies, strengths and weaknesses. 

Naturally the morning shifts are pure mayhem: short, intense periods where everything has to just run perfectly. It’s during these periods he learns to be quick and efficient and yet methodical. He’s tense during the first days, afraid to make mistakes, but soon he can chat with co-workers and customers, who are impatiently waiting for their daily caffeine hits with bleary eyes while he is working behind the counter. 

The afternoons are slower paced, with lots of different customers milling in, students, housewives, elderly people occupying the arm chairs at the window, either watching passers-by, reading quietly on their kindles and ipads, or typing away on their notebooks.

It feels good to be genuinely liked. He doesn’t need to assert his dominance here. All he has to do is brew good coffee and occasionally lend people an ear. Although he is careful not to tell anyone about his past as a psychiatrist his training becomes obvious at the way he converses with the customers. When they do get suspicious he tells them he had psychotherapy—he becomes the master of half-truths and semi-lies. 

One of the regulars tells him, „You’re quiet, but nice.“ In the past people have rarely paid him compliments, at least not without wanting something from him in return. If they complimented him they flattered him about his tastes—his car, his house, his achievements, his suits. 

No one has ever told him he’s „quiet“ or „nice“. 

Frederick smiles, then looks at the counter again. He avoids eye contact—there is always the fear of being recognized by someone. 

He is almost able to forget Will Graham while he works his shifts at the _Pellegrini_ —which is why he spends as much time as he can there. When he enters the café, starts up the coffee machine, readies the counter—he has not time for thinking about anything else than work. Once he gets used to the job and the routines he’ll probably need more to distract himself but in the meantime this will do nicely. (In the back of his mind Will is always there though, and no amount of keeping himself busy can change that.)

As soon as he gets home the emptiness of the flat overwhelms him and a dull ache settles in his bones and around him. He invariably ends up taking a valium, has a glass or two of red, then dozes on the couch, staring at the TV. Around midnight he manages to drag himself to bed and fall into a shallow, uncomfortable dreamless slumber. 

 

Two weeks after Frederick has begun working at the _Pellegrini_ , he is finishing his shift and handing over to Sienna, logging out of the check out after quickly reconciling the payments against the invoices in the system. His mind is busy with the inventory. The computer has issues, and the eftpos terminal’s cable is loose and has to be replaced. (They’ll get a wireless one in a few weeks, but for now they’re still wrestling with a slightly antiquated terminal.)

A customer is standing in front of the counter, and Fred gives him a quick smile without really looking up.

„Hi, I’m Fred,“ he says, „sorry—the computer takes ages today! Do you already know what you’d like?“

„An Americano, with two sugars,“ a _very_ familiar voice says. Frederick recognizes that voice immediately.

Slowly Frederick looks up, and stares into Will’s stony face.

He swallows around a lump in his throat.

„What size would you like?“ he manages to ask.

„Medium,“ Will replies. 

„Fred!“ Benedict says behind him, „Sienna asks if you wanna do the evening shift tomorrow. Ellen is sick.“

„Yes, no problem,“ Frederick says without turning around.

„Fred,“ Will repeats with an expressionless face.

„I’ll get your Americano ready,“ Frederick says, bravely keeping a professional smile on his face, and pushes a small stand with the number „4“ at him, „please take a seat and I’ll bring it to you.“

Will takes the sign and with an accusing glare at Frederick, shuffles off.

„What’s wrong with this guy,“ Benedict asks Frederick, watching Will’s back, „do you know him?“

Frederick shrugs, ignores him, pretending to be busy.

„Hey, leave that to me, you finished your shift fifteen minutes ago,“ Benedict says.

„I’ll bring him his order,“ Frederick mumbles, „but you can take over. The counter is ready, inventory done.“

Frederick prepares the coffee, adding the sugar and takes it to where Will is sitting. He has chosen the big sofa in the back of the room. 

„So, _Fred_ ,“ Will says without pre-amble, when Frederick brings him his drink, „when did you begin your new career as a barista?“

„I started two weeks ago,“ Frederick says with a nonchalance he doesn’t feel at all.

„Why did you not tell me?“ 

Frederick is, for a brief moment, tempted to point out that Will has no right to be hurt by any omission on his part. 

„I’m not obliged to tell you about my —“

„Quit the bullshit,“ Will says in an angry tone. He does take a sip from his coffee.

„God, your coffee is really good.“

„Thanks,“ Frederick says automatically.

„You fucking prick.“

Frederick feels insipid in his black shirt and his the cheap black pants and the striped apron with his name tag.

„Why did you stop seeing me?“ Will asks, „why didn’t you talk to me?“

„I didn’t know what to say,“ he admits, suppressing a sigh, looking longingly at Benedict and Sienna who, both leaning on their elbows on the counter, stare unashamedly back, craning their necks to get a good look at Will. When he glares at them they give him a cheery little wave.

Will pushes his glasses up.

Frederick longs to touch him. Instead he nervously rubs his own thigh. 

„Is this your new life?“ Will asks, slowly looking around, „are you Fred, the barista at the local coffee shop now?“

Frederick hasn’t really thought about this. It has been good the last few days. 

„I wish I could convince you to let me part of this,“ Will says, „I wish you’d believe me if I tell you I could be good for you, but even I understand … that it is too much asked.“

„You are no longer Dr. Frederick Chilton. You don’t want to be reminded of it. You want to be an entirely new person and here you can. Nobody can understand better than I do at this point, how much you wish to undo the past by … deconstructing it. And I belong to this past—the past you want to erase.“

It surprises Frederick to hear the pain in Will’s voice. 

Will still takes a sip from his his coffee, then sniffs. Belatedly Frederick realizes that Will is also crying. The woman on the table closest to them, looks at Will wiping his face with his sleeve, then at Frederick.

„I watched you for a while before coming in,“ Will admits, „and you looked happy. You moved around with ease, you were joking with people, and … I don’t even know who you are. I’ve never met this guy before. Whenever I am with you, I force you to be Frederick Chilton again. I remind you of pain and fear, of murder and death and blood, but above all of a life you hated deep down.“

Helplessly Frederick lays a hand onto Will’s shoulder, and Will sobs a quiet little sob, like a wounded animal. 

Frederick searches for words, in vain. All he can utter is „I don’t deserve you.“ 

It’s what he’s been thinking the last days—he felt inadequate and pathetic beside Will, and thought Will would understand. 

He knows it sounds wrong and dishonest, but this is the plain truth. He doesn’t deserve Will Graham. They both know that. Everyone knows that.

„What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?“ Will says bitterly, then shakes his head.

„If that’s what makes you happy, then go for it,“ he says, „if that is what you need now I understand, but just … tell me. Speak to me. Don’t just let my calls go to voice mails, don’t just reply to my texts with inane lies.“

He wipes his face. Frederick registers two customers, sitting close by watching the drama. He knows both of them, Frank and Rose, an old couple who come in daily, since Frederick has started to work here.

„Fred!“ Sienna calls him. Will lets out another, unfortunately very loud sob.

„I … have to go,“ Frederick tells Will, patting his shoulder.

Frederick walks over to Sienna, noticing how he can feel his scar suddenly. It’s like being cut open all over again. 

„Why are you making the customers cry?“ she asks him, whispering, pointing at Will who is slowly getting up.

„Sorry about that,“ Frederick says.

„Please don’t make a habit of breaking up with your boyfriends at your work place,“ Sienna says, „he seems really distressed.“

„I’m sorry“ Frederick says again, feeling hollow. 

„Why are you breaking up with him anyway?“ Benedict asks loudly over the noise of the hissing coffee machine. Practically everyone in the vicinity can hear the conversation. Perfect. Just what Frederick needs now.

„I’m not the right man for him."

„Sounds to me you’re just not into him and trying to be nice about it, if you’re asking me.“ Benedict pours the black espresso into two cups, fills them up with foaming milk, expertly wiping off the rim of the two mugs.

„Not into him?“ Frederick says, suddenly furious, „I didn’t ask you, but I love him.“

Shocked he claps his hand in front of his mouth. 

Sienna and Benedict both stare at him, their eyebrows raised.

God, this is the godawful, final truth, all in the open now. He can’t lie to himself any longer. He has said it, and he can feel the weight of this truth. He has known all along, has carried the knowledge long enough with him. What a failure he is, even when it comes to losing. 

(Hannibal Lecter would never break like this.)

„I can’t believe you’re a grown man,“ Sienna finally says, „go after him, you big idiot!“

He just spilled to people he met only a few weeks ago the secrets of his heart. Things he never told anyone else, not his mom, not Cara, things he could never tell Will. Things he wasn’t even ready to admit to himself. He still needs a moment to get over that.

„He’ll get away,“ Benedict says, „go and tell him what you just told us.“

Frederick turns around and walks through the store. Frank and Rose helpfully point to their right. „He went this way!“

„Good luck!“ someone yells after him.

Frederick pushes open the glass door, then breaks into a run. His scar throbs, but he couldn’t care less. The streets are crowded with the first wave of people getting off work. Frederick can’t focus in this sea of faces. He keeps scanning the crowd for a curly mop of hair.

In the distance he can make out Will’s green jacket and he runs blindly after it, pushing through the crowd, screaming, apologizing to people he elbows in their sides.

The traffic light jumps to red in the moment he has almost caught up. In the distance he can see the green of Will’s jacket becoming smaller and smaller. Cursing, he looks right and left and the rapidly approaching cars, and decides to just risk it. The moment he sets foot onto the street, ready to run, someone yanks him back onto the sidewalk on his sleeve. 

„Are you fucking crazy?“ 

It’s Will, his face twitching with irritation and worry.

Frederick is so relieved he begins to laugh.

„What is wrong with you?“ Will just says, shaking his head. His brown curls tremble with exasperation, „you could have gotten yourself killed.“

A truck speeds past them.

„I am sorry, Will,“ Frederick says, „I am … I am sorry. I needed to tell you.“

Will opens and closes his mouth, then blinks.

Frederick can see how Will still holds his coffee.

„So tell me,“ Will says, and Frederick leans forward and kisses him.

„You are not my past, Will. You never remind me of the past.“ 

Frederick feels his scar again, reminding him that he just ran two blocks. Exhausted he leans against a pole. 

„I thought you were gone.“

Frederick pulls Will against him. He doesn’t mind the looks people walking past them bestow upon the two of them.

„Then what am I to you?“ Will asks, almost shyly. Frederick lets himself drown in the openness of Will’s ocean blue eyes. 

„You’re my present,“ Frederick says, „and I want you to be my future.“

Will lets out a sigh, and then his lips press against Frederick’s. 

Frederick melts into the sweetness of their kiss. 

„So, this is love,“ he thinks dizzily. He's over forty and for the first time in his life he is in love.


	16. In Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed, apologies.

Frederick was prepared to live his life alone.

As a teenager he was part of the school’s social life—not the popular boy, not part of the _jeunesse doree_ … but due to his considerable efforts not an outsider as well. It was good enough. He was popular by association. He flattered the right people, took care to be on the side of the kids with the cashmere sweaters and Italian jeans. And so they tolerated him. It was a measure of success for him. He took pride in that. The popular group, the kids with the wealthy parents let him sit with them in the lunch breaks. 

The other children, who were not part of that elitist circle and thus not privy to its inner workings believed Frederick was part of the It Group. They never saw the invisible barrier between him and the other members. As long as they believed it, it was real enough for Frederick: he mostly saw himself through the eyes of others. 

In truth he was invisible. He laughed dutifully along with the others to jokes someone else made (even the ones made on his expense). He didn’t speak up when his friends bullied one of the other kids—he held himself wisely in the background. He played his part. The price for his opportunism was survival in the merciless high school environment.

After school he went home alone. He peered at his reflection in the mirror and never saw a person, a distinct outline—only something that needed to molded, something that never quite measured up.

It would never be enough but if he worked hard enough he could build a fort and it would hold strong enough so he could hide behind it and be whoever he wanted to be. 

Outwardly he pretended not to care but he did. He didn’t desire the friendship of the boys he went to school with. He would have never admitted it but he was afraid of them—despite their youth he could sense what they would become. Ruthless corporate predators like their fathers, members of the Old Boys Club before they graduated from their ivy league colleges. They would marry beautiful wives with impeccable taste in fashion and interior decor and churn out beautiful children who would then proceed to become carbon copies of their parents. 

He filled his dreams with his longing. He read Maurice and Dorian Grey, poems by Christopher Isherwood and W. H. Auden. He read Ginsberg’s Howl aloud, whispering into the silence of his room. He pored over James Baldwin, Silvia Plath and Virginia Woolf.

He dreamt up a boy who would read those books with him and hold his hand. In his day dreams he and his lover would constantly engage in banter about the novels and philosophers they read. His lover would be his best friend. His lover would be someone who would see him. 

As the years went by the image of this boy would pale until it faded. Frederick would unlearn to dream. He would know he would settle. He’d build his fort. He’d strengthen the walls and ignore the sense of futility, slowly creeping into the cracks of his mind. 

He didn’t waste time mourning for youth, for things he never had. There were things needed to get over with. 

Although he should know better he’d construct his own theory about passionate love: after a certain age it was unlikely to happen. Once the hormone level adjusts mature adults are unlikely to experience romantic love the way teenagers do. Romantic love requires the combination of an immature mindset and entitlement, both things that adult life would slowly but steadily grind into the dust or turn into something nasty and bitter. 

Frederick intended to take a partner one day he’d find acceptable and trustworthy enough but he’d be able to make informed decisions. Love would not simply _happen_ to him and it did not.

Until it does.

It is happening to him right now.

All in all, he is ill prepared for kissing a man in public on the street and be kissed by him. He is ill prepared for the fullness of his heart, the dizzying happiness. He has never known it could ever be like this—the mere existence of one person filling his heart with so much affection, desire, excitement and hope. His brain being flooded with oxitocyn, dopamin and serotonin and his heart beating erratically and rapid.

He is lightheaded. This is a crucial moment. If his life were a movie—this is where it would stop. 

Suddenly and without knowing he got his Happily Ever After.

They walk back to his flat, past the coffee shop. If Frederick thinks Sienna and Benedict would not see him, he is of course wrong. Sienna waves at them. Benedict gives them an exaggerated wink and thumb up sign. Frank and Rosie, who are standing at the counter turn around and wave too, and Will, waves back.

Frederick just marches past, staring straight ahead, his cheeks burning.

The concierge at the reception of his apartment greets them, and again, Will greets back, instead of ducking his head and trying to make himself invisible, keeping his hand on Frederick’s arm. Frederick would have thought Will Graham would be private about such things. (To be honest the past weeks, days and hours have proven him wrong about a lot of assumptions he had about Will.)

They can’t keep their hands off each other in the elevator and start kissing, nearly stumble onto the wrong floor. They kiss, leaning against Frederick’s door for a full minute, until Will lets Frederick fumble for the key card. As soon as they close the door behind them, Will attacks Frederick anew, hungrily, sweetly. 

Will’s lips taste of the winter sky and pine. 

„I want to fuck you,“ Frederick hears himself say. 

„Ah …yes,“ Will pants, „should I shower first? Or …?“

„Fuck that,“ Frederick snarls, and Will laughs out loud. 

„Oh well, I showered before I left home,“ Will says, then blushes, „and I … fingered myself with er, soap. Just in case.“

„O God,“ Frederick groans, „are you trying to kill me?“

The image of Will fingering himself open in the shower sends redhot heat up his spine. His cock is straining against the fabric of his pants.

He snatches Will’s hand and pulls him into the bedroom, then pushes him onto the bed. He undresses Will efficiently, pulling off his boots and socks, then unzipping the denims, pushing them down, revealing Will’s beautiful pale skin, his lean thighs, the almost downy dark hair on the calves. He mouths Will’s hard cock through the briefs, breathes in his scent. 

„Thank god he loves me,“ Frederick thinks, „I’m addicted to this man, to everything about him. If he wouldn’t love me back I’d be fucked.“

(His inner voice is bemused at his new-found crudeness but stays silent on the topic otherwise.)

Will is leaning on his elbows, watching him.

Frederick hooks his thumbs under the waistband and pulls the briefs off. He loves the moment Will’s cock bounces out, already fully hard, the foreskin pulling back, revealing a flushed, spongy glans. 

To him Will’s cock is the most beautiful cock in the world. It has the silkiest skin, the prettiest colour, the sweetest taste, the most delicious scent. Frederick has always liked sucking cock but since he is sleeping with Will, he masturbates to the thought of Will’s cock heavy in his mouth, twitching and leaking salty pre-cum, comes to the imagined taste of his cum. Only after meeting Will, sucking cock has become his kink, a veritable fetish.

Will moans when Frederick licks the slim, hot, rock-hard shaft, traces a fat meandering vein up to the glans. He lovingly deposits a wad of spit onto the frenulum, then begins to circle the plump cock head with his tongue, distributing slick wetness. Will twitches.

„Ah-ah,“ Will says, throwing his head back.

Lube! Frederick releases Will’s cock to crawl closer to the bedside table, but Will beats him to it, and tosses the lube towards him. Frederick squeezes some onto his index and middle finger then starts playing with Will’s pretty, furled hole. Within a few moments Will opens up (Frederick can feel the muscle relax under his fingertips), and he slips his fingers in, while pouring more lube onto his hole and fingers.

„Yes,“ Will moans, his voice thick and hoarse and strained.

He spreads his legs further, tilting his hips, pushing up. 

„Hey, Fred,“ Will says, grinning up at him.

„Shush,“ Frederick plasters a grim expression onto his face, drawing his brows together, „how dare you mock me?“

„Oh, Fred!’ Will cries out, „Please ravish me, Fred!“ and mid-sentence collapses into a fit of very unmanly giggles.

„Stop calling me that!“ Frederick tries not to laugh. 

„Well, then put your cock into me, and fuck me just as you promised me!“ Will lifts his legs and wraps them tightly around Frederick’s waist.

Frederick pours more lube onto his fingers, inserts them into Will’s hole, crooks his index finger and strokes Will’s insides. He circles the small bump and Will arches up, his ass clamping down onto his fingers, his cock jumps, then pre-cum oozes out onto Will’s white belly. Frederick bends down, licks the hot cock head, then the wet, salty puddle.

„Oh ….“ Will throws his head from side to side, „please I need your cock inside me!“

Frederick lubes his cock, taking care that Will has a good view of it. Will’s eyes are glassy and dark with lust. Watching Frederick stroke himself, he licks his lips, then looks into Frederick’s eyes. 

„Yes,“ he says in a small voice, „please.“

Frederick lets himself fall forward, bracing his arm beside Will’s shoulder, then slides slowly into Will. Will’s eyes widen and he gasps. 

„Fuck,“ he moans. Frederick stills, although nothing would feel better right now to slide further into this tight hole. 

God, Will is incredibly tight and hot around him. 

„Are you alright?“ Frederick manages to ask. 

Will begins to move incrementally, carefully holding Frederick’s hips, and using his legs to control every movement. Frederick closes his eyes, trying to desperately lock every muscle in his butt, his thighs and stomach to resist the urge to just _fuck_. 

After, what seems an eternity, Will finally parts his lips, breathing shallowly in and out. His eyelids are fluttering. His movements become bolder. Frederick feels Will relaxing. 

He focuses on the sensations in his cock as he slowly and carefully fucks Will. When he looks up again, Will is looking at him, with half-lidded eyes and the sweetest, kindest smile.

Carefully, so he doesn’t inadvertedly hurt Will, he lowers himself onto his elbows and kisses Will. Will surges up, sighing into his kiss. 

„You’re such a good man,“ Frederick tells him, although he feels foolish doing so, „you have no idea how good you are.“ 

„Frederick,“ Will gasps, kissing him again.

He trembles around Frederick, violent shudders wreck his thin frame. 

„Fuck,“ Will moans, and begins to move in earnest. Will writhes, shifts his upper body until he has the angle he wants. His eyes are glazed, dark and huge with lust, his jaw slack with pleasure.

„Yes, please,“ he gasps out. 

Frederick follows his movements, lets Will steer him with his ankles and heels and thighs. Although he is the one invading Will’s body he feels himself surrendering, submitting to Will’s demands. When his body susses out what Will needs—and how—he pushes in, aiming for the spot inside Will’s body that makes him clench so deliciously.

„Ah,“ Will cries out, shaking, „I’m coming.“

Frederick kisses Will again. Just as their lips meet, Will cries into Frederick’s mouth, arching up. Frederick feels Will contracting around him in a way no one could contract deliberately. He feels Will’s hard cock between them twitch, then warm, slippery cum pulsing out. Another wave of impossibly strong contractions grips his cock, literally milking his orgasm out of him and Frederick lets go, lets himself tumble over the edge, thrusting into Will.

Slowly as he comes to himself he becomes aware of Will’s arms around him, of Will rocking him, stroking his hair and his back.

He feels the instinct to withdraw but then immediately remembers that it is not necessary any longer. They are lovers now. So he stays where he is, smiles into the space between Will’s sweat-slick throat and his shoulder.

It is good to feel safe. It is good to feel.

For the first time Frederick is glad to have survived.

They keep lying like this for a while, until Frederick rolls off Will, grabs some tissues from the bedside table and pats Will’s stomach dry. Will watches him lazily with a tired smile.

„How is your ass?“ Frederick asks.

„Well fucked,“ Will says, still smiling.

Frederick snorts.

„Are you in pain?“

„A little,“ Will shrugs, „but it’s manageable.“

He takes some Kleenex tissues off the bedside table and unceremoniously stuffs them between his thighs and his bum cheeks. Frederick goes into the bathroom and rinses his cock.

„I hope I didn’t make a mess,“ Will says.

Frederick snorts again. „Your concern is touching, but I’m fine. I’m too gay to be concerned with the sometimes inevitable consequences of anal sex.“

He goes back to the bedroom, looking down at Will who is sprawled luxuriously over the tangled bedsheets.

„Kind of a long-winded way to say you’re ok with poop on your dick,“ Will muses.

Frederick grimaces. „I was told I have a way with words, but you’re putting me to shame. Now scoot over and make me some room.“

Will laughs and pulls Frederick down.

When they look at each other, they kiss again. Will’s lips are red and swollen. 

„By the way,“ Frederick says, because it just enters his mind, „you shouldn’t worry too much.“

Will raises his eyebrows.

„Going to the bathroom and taking a shower before taking cock is usually enough.“

„I just didn’t want to ruin the moment,“ Will laughs.

„One of the first guys I ever had sex with, had an accident. In my bed,“ Frederick reminisces.

„Jesus fucking Christ,“ Will says, covering his eyes.

„We were both really young and he was so mortified, he nearly jumped out of the window. I was just embarrassed because _he_ was embarrassed but at that time I was already a medical student, and you get used to the reality of human bodies very quickly.“

„So did you have sex with him again?“ Will asks.

„Yeah, but he took nearly two hours to shower, doing an enema. He was uncomfortable with bottoming because of that. We mostly did handjobs, blow jobs. Anal sex was special celebratory sex and I had to announce it a week ahead, so he could prepare himself. I didn’t mind, but just felt bad for him.“

„That’s really interesting,“ Will is lying on his side now, his head propped up on his elbow, „somehow you can never talk that frankly about anal sex with women. I mean, not with many. Or at least the ones I have met.“

He blushes.

„I never fingered them that long beforehand,“ he admits then.

„That’s a shame,“ Frederick says, revealing his teeth in a quick, shark-like grin, „I love fingering you.“

Will laughs again. „I could tell. I could see you like touching things. You like feeling things with your fingers. In the hospital you’d always stroked your cane. Pretty freudian.“

„Here I thought you detested me,“ Frederick says.

„I did,“ Will says simply, „but I still looked at you. At your suits, your ties, the crinkles around your eyes. At your eyebrows. At your hands. Your fingers.“

Will touches his face. Every touch of Will’s feels good. Frederick tenses when his fingers lightly touch his scar. The new skin still feels odd.

„I looked a lot at your throat,“ Frederick confesses, feeling bold.

„I know,“ Will’s smile is not mocking him, „whenever I swallowed, your eyes were drawn to my adam’s apple. You couldn’t help it, could you.“

„No. I couldn’t.“ Why lie now? 

„It was the first time when I thought about it. Having sex with guy.“

At that Frederick glances at Will. 

„Alright, Mr. Graham, I won’t believe for a moment that it was me who caused you to acknowledge your homoerotic urges,“ he smirks, lying back. Will’s calloused finger tips continue to touch the side of his face. „It was there all those years, suppressed and stashed away but you really began to look into yourself and your desires when you met Hannibal Lecter. He did not intend to open that particular drawer of your mind, but in his search for your secrets he did stumble over your repressed homosexuality and he used it. He would have been a fool not to.“

He opens his eyes to gauge Will’s reaction. Will is quiet, continuing to caress Frederick’s face.

„Did you desire Hannibal Lecter, Will?“

Will swallows, averts his eyes. Frederick refuses to feel betrayed. It would not make sense anyway. Will’s interactions with Lecter are in the past and they differ greatly from what they have now. 

„He toyed with me,“ Will says softly, „but he loves me. He believes he loves me.“

He pauses.

„I loved him enough to want him to run.“

"Do you think when he killed Abigail and gutted you, he still loved you?" Frederick keeps his voice carefully calm and neutral. 

"Yes," Will whispers, his eyes closed.

„It’s over,“ Frederick says, although he knows it’s not true. Nothing is over yet. 

„He seemed to want me without being truly aware of the whole extent. He appeared as someone who was not entirely clear about the nature of his interest in me. It intrigued me because in all other aspects Hannibal Lecter was so much in control. Only when it came to his fascination with me he seemed as adrift as I am. Was. “

Will laughs a brittle, humorless laugh.

„It’s only fair I guess. I tried to manipulate him. I went so far as trying to tempt him. And he toyed with me in return. I got what I deserved.“

Something in Will’s voice alarms Frederick, and he sits up, ignoring the twinge of pain on his belly. 

„You did nothing to deserve this, Will,“ he says, perhaps more forcefully than he intended, „this is … a mental trap. Believing you are responsible for what he did to you, makes you feel in control, if only for a moment. You believe, that if you would have acted differently, the outcome would have been different, but the simple truth is Hannibal Lecter is a murderer. Yes, he is unique, a singular phenomenon but one thing is for certain: He is not an old-testamentarian god or the devil or any other mythical being as much as he likes to believe it.“

Will moves closer to Frederick, pressing his chest against his, as if seeking shelter.

„Hannibal Lecter has killed before he met you. In the end his motives have nothing to do with you, and consequently nothing you did or did not do could have stopped him from killing. It is part of his design to make you feel responsible for his actions. Maybe he even believes so himself but underneath all his pretense of being in absolute control he is also a beast at the mercy of his instincts and desires, and you know that, don’t you?“

Will tries to turn away, but Frederick puts his hand onto Will’s face.

„Say it,“ he demands.

Will stares up at him for a while, then clears his voice.

„I know,“ he says.

He takes Frederick’s hand and kisses his palms and his fingertips.

„It is not over,“ Will murmurs.

„No,“ Frederick agrees, „but it will be.“


	17. Hannibal Ante Portas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'ed.

Their lovemaking is sentimental, and Frederick loves every moment of it. He can’t get enough, of how _open_ Will is. 

„I am not afraid any longer,“ he tells Frederick, „I used to be broken. I never believed I could be mended. I never thought I’d be any good, mended, unbroken.“

These days, when he smiles, he shows his teeth. He has small dimples something Frederick has never noticed before on Will.

„Do you think you’re mended now?“ Frederick asks carefully. 

Will shrugs. „I know now I _can_ be mended.“ He takes Frederick’s hand and lays it onto his scar. 

„I will be stronger, because of you,“ he adds quietly, "I will heal. So will you."

 

A week later Frederick is taking a shower before work, and his phone rings. It’s the ring tone assigned to Cara, but he opts for staying longer under the hot water and call her back later.

Will picks up.

„Hi, this is Frederick’s phone,“ he says.

A pause—then:

„I’m Will, Frederick’s, uhm, friend. He’s in the shower right now.“

Frederick snatches the phone out of Will’s hand, dripping wet, before the conversation can continue. The water is still running.

„Hello Cara,“ he says. 

„He sounds really nice,“ Cara says, laughing. 

„I’m late for work, I call you back later,“ he tells her, then hangs up. 

Will is leaning at the door frame not even looking guilty.

„Since when do you take other people’s calls?“ Frederick asks incredulously after a while, „you don’t even take your own.“

„You told me about Cara,“ Will defends himself, „you told me she knows about us, right? Of course you told her.“

He fetches a towel from the bath room, turns off the shower and towels Frederick dry, then kisses his cheek.

„Are you still guarding yourself?“ he asks.

"It's just ... not like you," Frederick says hesitantly.

Will laughs out loud.

"Of course not!," he says, "I am no longer myself. And neither are you."

He kisses Frederick.

"Now I'm the nosy, clingy boyfriend who just wants to know every little thing about you," he says, smiling, "is that horrible?"

After a moment Frederick has to concede, his panic is groundless. Will is curious. And if he’s honest he always wanted that—someone who wants to know him. Someone he doesn't have any secrets from. It should make him happy not worried. 

It makes him happy, he insists.

So he decides not to worry. There is a time for worries about invasion of privacy but for someone like Will who slips so often in the minds of others the words „invasion“ and „privacy“ have likely lost their meaning. Will is different than anyone else Frederick has ever met. Common rules simply don't apply.

Before his inner voice can come up with something snide he quells it by kissing Will back. Will tastes of coffee and hope.

„You can always pick up my phone,“ he tells Will, „even when my mother is calling.“

Will kisses him.

 

At work Sienna and Benedict are needling each other over one of Sienna’s boyfriends, to Frederick’s relief and don’t pay attention to him. He engages in a lot of banter with the customers and some of them tell him straight away he looks happy. A few (Frank and Rosie, the elderly couple) inquire about Will. He doesn't mind chatting with them about him. 

(He is happy to do all the things he never allowed himself in his old life, like talking about his beautiful and perfect lover—it fills him with a grounding, warming sensation. With every word he says about Will to others, all of this becomes more real.)

His mother calls him the minute he gets out of work and orders him to attend dinner, with Will. Frederick pretend-sighs, but what can he do. 

He is more pleased to see Will immediately accepting the invite than he’d like to admit to himself—„Of course, I’m dying to get to know your family!“—but there is still that pesky niggling sensation in the back of his mind. Not all is right, but he wishes his mind would simply concentrate on what is right, instead go look for the shadows and the darkness. After all life is never ever perfect. Life never ever just _is_ , but it's rather a composite of the past, of the present and the future. They will never be rid of their ghosts and Frederick likes to think they both harbor no illusions about that. 

They are wounded survivors after a harrowing battle, a battle without victory. It’s only natural that things are off. With time they will find back to their real selves. Or at least Will might. 

(Frederick doesn’t think he could ever again inhabit the skin of the man he left behind in the BSHCI.) 

The days leading up to „The Supper“ as Will jokingly terms it, are filled with frantic phone calls (Mom wants to know all of Will’s food allergies, likes and dislikes. She wants to know if he is vegetarian or vegan or pescetarian or omnivore).

Frederick willingly lets himself be infected by their excitement. 

Cara calls him every day after work, which in her case sometimes means late at night. Frederick has begun to pick up even when Will is with him and put her on speaker. Will has developed the habit to insinuate himself into their conversations.

Once, when he looks up, he can see Will’s eyes resting on him, the typical soft, yet unreadable expression in them.

This is love, Frederick thinks then, for the probably 1000th time this week. God, he loves Will, and he loves being besotted. 

„I am over forty and am experiencing high school love,“ he thinks, „for the first time in my life.“

He doesn’t really follow Will’s and Cara’s brief conversations, but simply looks at him and let the happiness spread throughout his whole body, warm him to the bones. Whatever happens from now on, nobody will take this away from him. He’ll have this forever.

 

In regards to sex Will is far more open-minded than Frederick expected a straight man to be. (He expected fear of emasculation and the like, but Will is an enthusiastic, uninhibited lover.)

Will loves to be rimmed and Frederick loves to rim him. Frederick can’t get enough of Will’s sweet, tight hole and his loud moans. He loves, how Will reaches down to his ankles and holds them up, presenting himself like a slut, without any shame, and he loves when Will gasps when Frederick pushes his tongue inside and begins to fuck him with it. Every time Will’s moans get louder and louder, until he is screaming himself hoarse, his arsehole twitching and clamping down around Frederick’s tongue.

The day of the dinner, Frederick spends an entire hour, face pressed between Will’s trembling legs, circling Will’s sloppy hole with his pointed tongue.

When he presses his lips against the rim, then pushes the tongue inside, Will arches against him, gasping and pleading. He comes without even touching his cock. 

Frederick’s doesn’t think anything in his life filled him more with a sense of achievement than giving Will mind-shattering orgasms. Because he feels especially sentimental today he licks Will’s cum from his pale belly. 

Later he dresses Will and it takes them two hours to accomplish the task, first because Will distracts Frederick with various underhanded, erotic manoeuvres, (he realizes it’s challenging to pick the right shirt when his cock is being sucked), then because Will plainly refuses to wear what he picks for him (as if a cashmere sweater would really kill him, for fuck’s sake) and finally because Will has the audacity to look so delicious Frederick pulls Will towards the bed and proceeds to rid him of all the carefully selected clothes.

„Do you think we have too much sex?“ Will asks later, when they lie exhausted and sated on Frederick’s bed.

„Not nearly enough,“ Frederick replies with his eyes closed. 

„You’re the psychiatrist, so I defer to your expertise,“ Will says, snorting.

„Oh, _now_ you rely on my expertise,“ Frederick teases him.

They finally make it to Frederick’s mother’s apartment—only ten minutes late. Will gives her the flowers Frederick picked at a fancy florist on their drive, is sweet and courteous. He smiles all the time holding on to Frederick’s hand under the table.

Cara and his mother take an immediate liking to Will, Frederick can tell. Surprisingly there is no awkwardness—Will is chatty and friendly. He only pauses for a short moment when his mom asks where they met.

„We met at Frederick’s former work place,“ Will then says, „in the hospital.“

Cara’s face goes tense and her eyes dart to mom.

„I read about all that,“ his mom says to Frederick’s shock. Looking at him she only shrugs, „do you think, I’m an idiot? I do read the newspapers!“

„I was his warden,“ Frederick says mulishly, „it’s not exactly a fond memory.“

Underneath the table, Will squeezes Frederick’s hand.

„Yes, but you were the only one who believed me. About Hannibal Lecter,“ he says, „and it was not because you were a friend or a colleague. You had no ulterior motive for wanting to believe me. You just looked at the facts, profiled me and Hannibal Lecter and that was what you came up with. You believing me meant a lot to me, in a time where I still thought I was going crazy.“

That is not what really happened but before Frederick can argue, Will squeezes his hand again and Frederick winces.

"Are you ok?" his mother asks him.

"Fine. Maybe had too much of the fried rice," Frederick grits through his teeth.

There is a bit of silence after that and Frederick takes a huge gulp from his wine glass. (He only gets one because his mother is worried about his kidney.)

„So, did you already make out in the hospital?“ Cara asks, stuffing two of mom’s cookies at once into her mouth.

Frederick sprays his mouthful of wine over his plate.

Will laughs, patting his knee. 

„I had to hunt him down,“ Will says, still smiling, „after it all happened. He was shy and skittish like a doe in the forest.“

They laugh. Nobody asks what Will means with „it“.

„Sounds like our Frederick,“ Cara says fondly.

„I laid a siege on him,“ Will says, „I called him and turned up at his place and then refused to take his hints and leave.“

„Well done,“ Cara says.

They continue to talk, Will politely asking questions about her work. Soon they seem to be joking and laughing a lot. Frederick becomes a bit sluggish after the heavy food his mom served them.

At some point, during the evening, Frederick looks at his mom’s face, and registers the happiness and warmth in it. 

„He makes excellent coffee,“ he hears Will say.

He suppresses an eye roll. „Everyone who doesn’t use soluble coffee makes excellent coffee in your eyes,“ he says fondly.

When they finally leave, two hours later than they had actually planned, Cara hugs Will, and again Will surprises Frederick in not flinching away but pulling her closer. He also embraces Frederick’s mother. As per usual they all leave with nearly obscene amounts of food.

During their drive home Will chats excitedly. At a red light, Frederick pulls Will into a kiss. "I love you," he tells him. Just saying it makes him happy. "I love you too, but you already knew that," Will replies after a while, a smile in his voice. 

The next week they have to spend a day apart, because Will is going to Quantico, discussing the terms of his re-employment. Will has begun teaching again earlier but on a casual and highly irregular basis—apparently though the academy is keen in re-hiring him. 

Frederick uses this time to genuinely begin looking for a place to live. His co-workers at the Pellegrino tease him, but luckily, Sienna has acquired a new admirer who drops in every afternoon she works and everyone, including Frederick have taken to spy on him a bit and exchange good-natured gossip. Sienna blushes adorably whenever the boy comes in. 

The café has been decorated for Christmas already a few weeks ago, but two weeks before Christmas they add more tinsel, more fake candy sticks and santa hats until it looks what Sienna and Frederick call „charming“ and Benedict deems a „surreal Christmas nightmare“.

In return Sienna and the rest of the crew name Benedict „Grinch“ but he takes it with humor and even wears a name tag saying „Grinch“.

When Frederick returns to his apartment in the late afternoon (slightly tipsy because some of the staff have forced him to go out with them for a beer), the first thing he notices is Will’s phone on the counter. Rolling his eyes, he picks it up, calling the BAU unit at Quantico to leave a message for Will so he knows where he forgot his phone.

„Quantico Behavioural Analysis Unit, this is Parker, how may I help you?“

„Hi, Isaac, it’s Frederick, I’m just calling because Will forgot his phone at home. Could you tell him that please? Just in case he doesn't remember.“

„Oh hi Frederick, I’ll tell him as soon as he comes in, but he’s not in today.“

„Did he leave already?“ Frederick frowns. He is absolutely positive that Will told him in the morning he’d be at Quantico, pretty much the entire day.

„He’s got no lessons scheduled today."

"What about the meeting?“ Frederick taps his fingers on the counter.

"Sorry, he's not in today," Parker informs him. Of course he can't divulge information about Will's whereabouts to an outsider, even though he's seen Frederick at least three times now.

„I see,“ Frederick says.

Will is leaning in the door frame to their bedroom. 

„You know what, it’s alright, don’t worry,“ Frederick says into the phone, hanging up.

Frederick smiles at him first, but something is off about Will.

„Will,“ he says.

Will regards him with cold eyes.

„Frederick,“ he says.

Frederick tilts his head, puzzled about the tone—did he do something wrong?

„Are you alright, Will?“

Will bestows him a tight-lipped smile. A muscle under his eye twitches. He doesn’t reply but stays eerily silent. Then he looks away from him, smiling at something behind him.

„Hello Hannibal,“ he says.


	18. Prelude To A Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies this is not beta'ed and I went back and added bits and pieces after the finale. Since the end of S2 this fic is 100% an AU. Just thought I should mention that.

The first thing Frederick notices when he comes to, is—aside from the metallic smell in his nose—the headache and nausea. His jaw hurts from where Hannibal has pressed the handkerchief in solvent against his mouth and his nostrils. It took a while to really take hold.

„Good evening, Frederick,“ Hannibal says, looking down at Frederick, „Would you like a glass of water?“

He lays a warm hand onto his face, his thumb briefly stroking his cheek bones.

„Please don’t hurt me,“ Frederick blurts out. He can’t help himself. All the nightmares of the past months come crashing back into his mind.

„You knew I would visit,“ Hannibal says to Will.

„I’m not surprised,“ say Will flatly, „I’m more surprised you seem to be surprised.“

When Hannibal touches him again, this time on his neck, Frederick starts weeping in a high, thin pathetic voice.

Hannibal looks quickly down at him, with slight dismay, as if a small dog piddled on his leg but then directs his attention towards Will again.

„Are you fishing once more, knee-deep in the cold waters of the stream? Have you not learned your lesson? Once a fish escapes the harder it is to catch.“

Will moves behind Frederick.

„A fisherman has no business hunting a stag,“ he says quietly, „and the past has shown that I am not a very apt hunter.“

Hannibal’s face moves out of Frederick’s vision but he can _hear_ him smile.

„You have patience, which is an important virtue but do you have faith?“

Hannibal’s hand never leaves Frederick’s neck. Then other hands are on his neck, Will’s hands.

„I never knew faith,“ Will says, „you know that, Hannibal.“

Frederick wants to scream. Maybe he should, just to interrupt this inane dialogue. 

„I expected you to be gone, like an apparition,“ Will says, his voice almost a whisper, „I wanted to think of you as a strange dream that had passed.“

„I gave you scars to remind you of the truth,“ Hannibal states, „I wanted you to wake up every day and know the reality of what had happened to you. My last gift, my last act of mercy to you.“

„You have a peculiar sense of mercy. I nearly bled to death.“ 

Will caresses Hannibal’s hand over Frederick’s cheek.

„Maybe it was less an act of mercy than altering your punishment to befit your crime.“

„You took lives over perceived rudeness and minor imagined offenses, but you calculated mine and Jack’s injuries so we would live.“

„To kill you would mean to kill a part of myself. I was not ready to die. I want us to live.“

Will laughs. 

His voice is unrecognizable, yet familiar. Frederick struggles first but then remembers that this is how Will sounded when they first met, that day in his office. 

He is glad Will is standing behind him. He could not bear to look at him.

If he could, he would laugh, laugh along with Will. Laugh at himself, at his own foolishness. Sad, poor old Frederick. Stupid, lovelorn, manipulated Frederick. So easy to lie to, so hungry for a scrap of affection. He’s nothing but an embarrassment.

Frederick can only stare at Hannibal’s merino wool clad thigh and the door behind him. Their voices seem distant in their macabre banter. 

He was in love with this Will Graham. He still his. The heart is so slow to catch up. He wants to fill it with righteous hatred and fury but this stupid thing in his chest is still breaking.

„Hannibal,“ Will says, and his voice is dark and soft and a little rough. A few days ago Will’s voice sounded exactly like this when his cock was buried in Frederick.

When Hannibal doesn’t reply he asks, „Are you in love with me?“

Hannibal takes too long to answer.

„My compassion towards you is inconvenient.“

„If you’re partial towards beef products it is inconvenient to be compassionate toward a cow.“

Hannibal snorts, genuinely amused. 

Frederick’s entire body vibrates with panic and fear. Glancing down at his arms he can see he is still uncontrollably shaking, and yet a part of him is resigned to his fate. The absolute knowledge that this time there will be no other outcome than his death is in a way liberating. 

This is how acceptance feels, Frederick thinks. Hannibal will finally kill him. Third time’s the charm. Looking up into Will’s and Hannibal’s faces he realizes he was always meant to die at Hannibal’s hand and all the while he had been living on borrowed time, from the moment Hannibal had escaped to Europe or from the moment he had turned up at Will’s house all these months ago, or maybe even earlier, from the moment he delivered his first jab at Hannibal’s achievements, years ago, at that conference in New York, his business card pinned into that infamous rolodex of Hannibal’s, one recipe, one flick of the wrist, one glib backhanded compliment away from death.

„Yes, Will,“ Frederick says suddenly through his tears (he has no idea when his brain made up its mind and decided to let him speak), „Hannibal is in love with you, and you are in love with Hannibal, so why don’t you go and fuck each other brains out in my bed. I’d rather set myself on fire and throw me out the window than to listen to you two fawn over each other any longer.“

Hannibal grips Frederick’s chin and lifts his face up, so he can see Will’s (cold, completely unaffected) face staring down at him. 

„Thank you, Frederick,“ he says, „for confirming Will’s feelings for me. Coming from you it means a lot to me. I have to admit I was already a little insecure on that front.“

Frederick hates that his pain is so visible in his features, hates how Will looks at him and can see everything. He can hide nothing from Will. 

Will’s face, of course, is completely closed to him. 

„You always have been somewhat of an inadequate man, but your … affections for Will have changed you. I wonder if it will change the way you taste. All the fear mixed with the bitterness and the disappointment.“

Frederick stares up at Hannibal into the reddish blackness of his eyes.

„You can’t control with respect to whom you fall in love,“ Hannibal says softly after a while, looking at him but addressing Will. Maybe he is talking to him. Or Hannibal is probably talking to the both of them.

„Do you think what I want from you is so simple?“ Hannibal smiles at Will, caressing his jaw. Frederick feels like a cut of meat being examined.

„A blood sacrifice to appease me, as if I were a Pagan god.“

„You are no god,“ Will says. 

„Your attempts at being manipulative are clumsy but oddly endearing,“ Hannibal’s voice has an affectionate tone, and Frederick tenses. That tone never bodes well.

Hannibal’s smile is fond and terrifying.

For a moment Hannibal and Will only smile each other.

„I cannot go back,“ Will whispers finally, „I cannot go home.“ 

For a reason Frederick can’t exactly comprehend it’s this statement that unravels him. It is the truth. Will cannot go back. He stumbled alone into the darkness and no one has ever tried to find him, to save him. The one man whose job it was to get him out of the darkness of his own mind had been Hannibal and Hannibal wasn’t interested in leading him out of the darkness.

Hannibal tilts his head, curious. It occurs to Frederick he reminds him of a reptile. 

And yet, as Hannibal looks at Will, he can see something else in them, a glint of fire, a hellish glow.

„I thought I could find my way back, but after you left, after I woke up in the hospital, I realized I could never … go back. And I was so alone.“

Tentatively Will reaches out to Hannibal. Frederick can see Will’s calloused fingertips ghost over his cheek. They hover over him, as if they want to caress him. Then Hannibal’s and Will’s fingers entwine. 

„Yes,“ Will breathes. A small smile flits over his face. His other hand lets go of Frederick’s head. 

Hannibal kneels down again, his dark eyes studying Frederick’s face.

Slender fingers, in an horrible imitation of affection stroke the sides of his neck. 

„I hope you believe me I am sorry, it has come to this, Frederick.“

„You are not sorry,“ Frederick whispers. „You just say that for Will's sake.“

„Do you believe he cares for you?“ Hannibal’s smile is terrible. 

Frederick blinks his tears away. His eyes are slightly swollen and snot is running down his lips and chin.

Will’s fingers wander up and massage his scalp, almost fondly, before they yank him at his hair back, exposing Frederick’s throat to Hannibal.

Hannibal’s face is utterly blank and friendly, only in his eyes Frederick can see death and darkness blooming in them.

„I hope you don’t mind me saying that you are a bureaucratic pencil-licker and abysmal psychiatrist, your lack of remorse and moral only tempered by a lack of imagination and courage,“ Hannibal says conversationally, the way he says everything, „but I do not care for hurting you. You don’t matter that much to me.“

„Ah,“ Frederick only says, waiting for death.

„Do you mean he is an incomplete, inferior version of you?“ Will asks. 

_Just shut the fuck up Will._

„You simplify again. You might have spent too much time with the good doctor.“ 

Hannibal straightens. 

„Your usually sharp mind has blunted under his care.“

Will walks away from him, leaning against the kitchen island.

„Everyone I love has died,“ Will says, „everyone around me is dead or grievously wounded. And yet men like him survive. So no, I don’t care for him.“

Frederick closes his eyes, wishing he could clap his hands over his ears, like a child.

Will pauses for a moment, „but I possess neither your hunger nor your ambition, Hannibal.“

Hannibal leans closer, examining Frederick’s face. He feels naked. Hannibal’s gaze pierces through everything he is, sees all that is hidden.

„Frederick harbours feelings for you. He believes them to be genuine.“

„I don’t doubt it,“ Will says, almost sadly, „we all harbour our illusions.“

„Did you sleep with Dr Chilton, just to lure me back into your arms?“

Will laughs again, and Frederick can’t bear the shrill, hollow sound. He refuses to look up, stares adamantly straight ahead.

„Oh, _Dr. Lecter_ ,“ Will says fondly, „I should let you believe that, just to please your considerable ego, but then sooner or later you would recognize the truth anyway.“

Hannibal raises an eyebrow.

„Or maybe you are blind to some truths,“ Will says dreamily.

He kneels down before Frederick, closer to him than Hannibal is.

Frederick notes the changes in his face, the bitter smile, the twitch around his eyes, but most importantly the look in his eyes. Maybe this is the worst: Will does not detest him. He _pities_ him. 

„Do you know what it means to be unable to endure yourself,“ he says, and Frederick can’t tell if he speaks to Hannibal, to himself or to Frederick.

Hannibal maintains his expectant silence. His face bears the rapt, captivated expression of a man listening to a moving piece of music. This is Hannibal in love, Frederick realizes. 

„There were days when I felt like screaming,“ Will states as if he speaks about the weather, in this flat, dead voice, „followed by days where I simply sat in a chair in a corner staring into nothing, unable to move. There were days where I cursed you for not killing me, knowing so well this had been your intention. To let me live with the destruction I had caused.

„Then there were days where I finally realized I was yours now. No matter how hard I tried to erase you, I would never be able to rid myself of the mark you left on me.“

Will’s hand caresses the scar on Frederick’s cheek. 

„Abigail is dead, while the ones responsible for her death, still live,“ Will says softly, „how is that fair? Do you think this is fair, Frederick?“

„I didn’t betray Hannibal,“ Frederick says, „you did.“

Will says, „I fucked myself on his cock, Hannibal, just so I could forget, just so I could be with someone who I detested even more than myself.“ _How does that make you feel?_ “

Hannibal’s eyes only briefly glide to Frederick’s face to enjoy the expression of humiliation but then return to Will’s face. 

_So I could forget._

He wants this all be over and done with. If he has to endure any moment longer of this hell-ish re-union he’ll throw himself with the chair he is tied to out of the window of his apartment and save these two clowns the trouble. 

Suddenly Will is shifting closer to him, putting his left hand into his thigh. Frederick can’t look at him and averts his gaze. 

„I’m sorry, Frederick,“ Will says softly, „I’ve seen too much of you to just detest you, you know? Once you see the whole truth of a human being you can’t simply hate them. But it is also impossible to love them. I am sure you understand this.“

 _Oh Jesus Christ, please shut up,_ Frederick screams internally, _or please shoot me before I have to listen more of your inane murder poetry.“_

Will wipes his lips with this hand as if to erase the memory of Frederick’s kisses, presses his fist against his mouth, then stands up. 

Frederick’s inner voice laughs and laughs. 

When Will kisses Hannibal, it’s in a different manner than he kissed Frederick–with far more hunger, far more passion. Hannibal allows it, and they just stand for a moment, Hannibal’s hand on Will’s small of the back, Will’s hand on Hannibal’s face.

Frederick does not want to see it, but there is an elegance in their kiss, despite the anguish in Will’s movements. There is a rightness to it, that was never there with Will and Frederick, a feral beauty Frederick cannot ever hope to offer. He wants to look away, yet can’t.

How Will literally devours Hannibal and Hannibal devours Will. Two predators locked in a battle. 

Hannibal possessively sucks at Will’s red lips, strokes the bottom lip with his tongue.

Then he suddenly tenses and pries Will’s hands off, pushes him away but Will surges forward, holding Hannibal’s face in his hands and chases Hannibal’s lips again. 

Finally, Hannibal and Will separate from each other. Hannibal looks into Will’s eyes with a little smile. His bottom lip is bleeding and he wipes it with his sleeve somewhat uncharacteristically.

„My beautiful Judas,“ Hannibal says quietly.

Frederick can't decide if he looks sad, disappointed or happy.

„You did gut me because you wanted me to be punished the way Judas was punished according to Matheus,“ Will says, „this is a fitting end for this tale, don’t you think?“


	19. Diagnosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed. Apologies.

Something has just passed between Hannibal and Will, something that Frederick, despite his privileged seating position is not privy to; a secret code perhaps, a whisper he did not catch. Missing the important clues has always been his forte.

Will moves forward with a speed, Frederick would have not thought for humanly possible. Hannibal moves equally fast, his muscles suddenly tense and locked as he dives right under Will's attack.

Before Frederick has processed what is happening, Will places both his hands onto Frederick's duct-taped wrists and pushes Frederick with his chair into the kitchen area, behind the kitchen island, turns around and, using the momentum, leaps at Hannibal. Hannibal doesn’t waste time and moves with the grace of a ballet dancer out of Will’s way, finds his footing right behind him and literally pirouettes, reaching to grab Will. 

They both have astonishingly fast reflexes. Frederick remembers Will underwent a basic cop training which is easy to forget when one can only see the disheveled, corduroy and plaid wearing teacher with his glasses and his twitchy smile.

With no one paying him attention he pulls at his restraints but to no avail. He does manage to move his chair towards the drawers of the kitchen island.

There is a focus now in Will’s movements, the way he tries to use every opening in Hannibal’s stance to get to him, dancing out of his reach at the same time, the way he shifts his body weight, pushes hips, thighs, calves into position before ducking under Hannibal’s punches.

When Will moves to the right, just in time to avoid a swift, powerful left-hand hook from Hannibal that could have broken his ribs, Frederick can see the feral expression in Will’s eyes. 

Even now they are beautiful. Even now they look so much more like lovers than Frederick and Will ever did.

_Oh Will._

Frederick manages to swivel his stupid chair around and, stretching the fingers of his right hand, pull one of the lower drawers open. He remembers seeing a knife set in one of them, but all Frederick sees in the one he managed to open, are stacked dish-washing towels. The noise from the drawer distracts Hannibal at least for a fraction of a second, enough for Will to duck under and sideways and step out of Hannibal’s reach. 

Without being versed in close-quarter combat Frederick knows that once Hannibal gets his hands on Will it might be too late—Will is fast, but Hannibal has the muscle strength and experience of a predator.

Pain shoots up his arm as he wriggles his wrist to open the top drawer, the duct tape cutting into his soft flesh. All he can manage is a few centimeters but then he bends down and pulls it with his chin open.

Frederick finally spots a knife, albeit a blunt, cheap fruit knife—the other, sharper knives are in the back of the drawer, out of his reach. He has to bend forward and take that stupid knife between his teeth. His chin hits the drawer and he groans in pain.

First the grip slips out from between his teeth, and he has to bend down again. He pulls back, trying to pluck the knife with the fingers of his bound hand. The duct tape cuts into his wrist as he frantically pulls and wriggles. From the corner of his eye he can see that the tip of the knife is exactly an agonizing centimeter too short. 

He has a wider range of mobility with his head so bites down on the orange silicon grip and bends towards his wrist, beginning to saw through the duct tape.

There is a strange halt in Hannibal’s movements. He charges at Will, throwing his entire body weight into this attack, but then seems to stumble—Will ducks away, then he too wobbles. With a forceful shove he locks the door, then slides the key card into the hallway, under the door slit. Frederick’s key card is on the couch of the other side of the room. With Hannibal between him and the couch, it might as well be a million miles away.

Hannibal snorts a quiet laugh, his eyes glinting strangely. With one hand he opens the top buttons of his shirt. He is struggling for breath.

The moment Frederick has worked his left hand free, a blur of Hannibal flies past his eyes—he just jumped over the kitchen island, in order to put distance between himself and Will, who has pulled a gun.

Frederick can’t help but notice how cold and completely in control Hannibal looks—almost like a robot, unable to feel fear or panic, an admirable survival machine. Hannibal is a man who could cut his own arm off to escape a trap, without any qualms. 

Before Frederick can think more or free his right arm, Hannibal has grabbed his neck from behind. Instinctively Frederick reaches around with his now unbound left arm, tries to force Hannibal’s fingers off, but Hannibal’s hand is like a steel claw. 

From that close Frederick can feel the body heat emanate from Hannibal, feel the iron strength of his muscles, but also the elevated heartbeat, smell the sweat building on his skin, his labored, erratic breathing. 

Something is wrong with Hannibal.

Will freezes, his eyes wandering from Hannibal to Frederick and back.

„Please drop your weapon, Will,“ says Hannibal, his voice sounding unusually strained and rough. His grip on Frederick intensifies, and for a moment Frederick’s vision dissolves into black dots.

„You know I am capable of breaking his neck without any effort even in my compromised state.“

_Compromised state?_

„Do with Chilton whatever you want,“ Will says between gritted teeth. His face is ashen, slick with sweat.

Hannibal coughs, then wheezes, an odd sound—as if he’s suffocating.

„The snake and the mongoose,“ he says, „but you are not immune to poison.“

 _Poison?_

Hannibal inches closer to the half-open drawer with the knives to reach for a knife. The veins in his underarms are prominent, an impressive relief pressing against the taut, italy-tanned skin. 

Frederick throws his weight against the drawer, slamming it shut (and Hannibal actually, surprisingly gasps out in pain). Adrenaline pumps through Frederick. He hasn’t planned his moves. He acts out of instinct, but his own instinct surprises him. His survival mechanism is to cower. To take the path of least resistance. To submit. Not to challenge, not to put up a fight—he can’t quite grasp why he did what he just did.

He can barely hear their voices now, he can barely see anything, except that forearm, the knuckles still in the drawer. 

Time has slowed down for him, and although Frederick knows that this is just a side effect from the adrenaline, it feels as if the universe grants him a chance to right things. It’s opening that door of opportunity, just a tiny bit for Frederick. It's his chance to atone. For what he can’t tell—maybe for a lifetime of laziness and cowardice.

To not be a coward for once, be brave, be a hero.

 _Don’t be brave_ , his brain hysterically supplies, _survive._.

He has to do this right. He has only one chance. He aims carefully.

Before Hannibal can pull away, Frederick pushes the fruit knife into his cephalic vein, right into the juncture between upper arm and forearm and hits it with almost surgical precision. He hears Hannibal emit a feral growl, then closes his eyes, waiting for his neck to be cleanly broken by Hannibal’s other, still intact arm—but at least it'll buy Will time. Unexpectedly Hannibal simply slides to the ground with a strangled groan. 

For a moment Frederick is stunned. Then, frantically he gropes for another, sharper knife in the kitchen drawer and manages to slice through the duct tape on his right wrist. He grabs the silver roll duct tape on the counter and almost hysterically tapes Hannibal’s arms together, then his legs, not bothering treating his wounds. His heart is pumping like crazy, drowning out every other sound in the world.

Only when he tears the end off with the knife, he realizes that Hannibal’s legs are not actually kicking—he is seizing. 

Hannibal’s eyes are unfocused. He moves his head—to look at Will. Will is shaking.

"Hannibal," he whispers brokenly. The pain in his voice cuts Frederick's heart.

Hannibal’s gaze flickers towards him. 

It is hard to not feel abject fear when looking into these black, unblinking eyes.

For a moment they look at each other, and Frederick doesn’t know who really has lost the fight. Hannibal doesn't look victorious but Frederick feels wounded.

They understand each other. The brief moment Frederick spends looking into Hannibal's eyes is the most sincere and honest moment he ever had with him and although Hannibal remains silent, apart from his jagged, wheezing, he can understand every word Hannibal tells him.

_"You are tolerable, but nothing more. He will never yearn for you."_

And Hannibal knows, that Frederick knows—and still Hannibal doesn't mock him. Maybe this is the first time Hannibal regards him with respect even though it is mingled with pity.

He stumbles on legs that feel like jelly towards the panic button and presses it, once, twice, three times, before he remembers that Hannibal might have de-connected it. 

Across the room Will has sunk to his knees, and Frederick reaches him just in time to prevent him from falling forward onto his face.

Will’s face is blueish now, his lips black, grey foam spills between his lips. His eyes are rolling backward too.

„You poisoned him,“ Frederick whispers, horrified, in sudden understanding, „by poisoning yourself.“

Will laughs.

„It’s not a bad method,“ he says, „but it has its downsides.“

Frederick calls the BAU. He calls an ambulance, screaming at the operators, knowing how deranged and out of his mind he sounds.

„Tell me what to do,“ he implores them. 

Hannibal twitches, grey foam and blood covering the lower half of his face. His eyes have rolled back. 

Frederick takes the gun out of Will’s hand, lays him down in the recovery position, opens his clothing, clears his air paths. 

„Don’t induce vomiting,“ the operator warns him. Frederick knows that of course, but it is good to hear the calm voice of the operator. He uses it to ground him.

The operators are trained in how to engage with the callers, to calm them if necessary, to diminish panic. They ask him questions that require his attention to distract him.

„What did you take, you stupid, stupid man,“ he asks Will, blinking his tears away.

When he gets up again he feels dizzy.

„I—„ Will says.

Frederick keeps the gun trained on Hannibal. He has heard too many stories about him, about his resilience, to trust his unconsciousness. 

He gathers Will in his arms. 

„What. Did. You. Take?“ 

„Beautiful,“ Will whispers, trembling violently now, looking at his own bloodied hands.

Frederick opens Will’s mouth, tries to smell his breath, but apart from a faintly bitter smell he can’t detect chemical smells. Still he wipes the inside of Will’s mouth and his lips with a wet cloth.

Will shakes his head, gasps, his lips turning blue. His lungs are failing him, then his heart stops beating. Frederick hasn't applied CPR for the last ten years, so he is astonished at how his hands and arms move—they remember what to do. He tilts Will's head back, lifts his chin and begins to administer rescue breathing. He stops, continuing with chest compressions. As if through a wall of cotton he hears himself sobbing and begging, although he can’t connect the sounds he is making, the high-pitched, pitiful sounds of a wounded animal, with his person at all.

Will's heartbeat returns, but he remains unconscious, the blue of his lips fading. Just as he starts to seize, someone knocks at the doors.

"FBI," a familiar voice yells, "open the door."

"Hannibal and Will are both unconscious," Frederick screams back.

Policemen in bulletproof vests, armed with rifles enter. Jack Crawford has a shotgun, trained away from Frederick, aimed towards Hannibal. He, too has learned to be careful when it comes to Hannibal Lecter. Despite him being clearly unconscious, the police keeps up the protocol, approach him carefully.

Crawford asks him something, but he doesn’t pay attention.

Someone takes the Glock out of Frederick’s hand and he is glad to be rid of the weight. All he does now is holding Will.

(He will have to let go so soon.)

The ambulance has arrived. The paramedics ask him questions, then haul Will onto the stretcher. Will refuses to let go of Frederick’s hand, one of the paramedics attempts to pry his fingers off him.

Crawford throws a quick glance at their joined hands, yells something at the paramedics and obviously that’s enough and he is allowed to accompany them.

Looking back he sees three members of the police unit finally kneeling down beside Hannibal Lecter, who is still seizing then shout for a stretcher as well. One of the medics is cutting Lecter’s clothes open.

Outside on the street a crowd of onlookers has gathered, watching the events curiously. One of the faces is Sienna. As he looks at her he knows that she knows who he is. It doesn’t matter much any longer, does it? 

When he lifts his shoulders in a way of silent apology she only smiles and mouths, "It will be ok." She gives him a thumb-up sign.

It feels like the end of a beginning though—he realizes now he was harboring childish hopes, seeing himself serving coffee day for day, spending his evenings peacefully with Will. 

An impossible fairy tale.

He climbs into the ambulance car. The paramedics attach the oxygen mask, tape it onto Will’s skin. 

Someone presses a tissue in his hand—he is crying.

All Frederick sees is Will’s face. His face feels numb. 

They arrive at the emergency and are immediately separated, with Will being taken to the poison center, and Frederick told to go to a waiting room after filling out a form and explaining his relationship to Will.

A few minutes later the ambulance with Hannibal Lecter arrives, heavily escorted. It seems impossible but his eyes are open—he seems lucid. Jack Crawford is with him. Immediately the medical team swarms around Hannibal to take him away to intensive care. 

Hannibal turns his head to look at Frederick.

He blinks slowly, then gives Frederick a smile that can almost be called polite. 

Frederick nods.

Dispassionately he watches as Hannibal is taken away, accompanied by an impressive and fear inducing security detail but this is no relief. Some beasts cannot be caged. There can never be a cage for a beast like Hannibal. A part of Hannibal will always be with Will. Hannibal may go to prison. He may get the death sentence. He may die. And yet, Frederick knows, as long as Will lives, Hannibal will live.

Someone touches his shoulder.

„Dr. Chilton?“ a woman in scrubs shakes his hand, „I’m Dr. Vernel.“ 

She has the forms he has filled out earlier in her hands.

„We have stabilized Mr. Graham’s condition,“ she says, „he is sleeping now.“

He nods. 

„Will he be alright?“

„Yes. Mr. Graham arrived within an hour of ingesting the tetrodotoxin. We have performed gastric lavage, and so far we have removed most of it, but he needs to take it easy for a few weeks,“ she tells him.

„I suppose I can’t … sit with him?“

She glances at the form.

„Mr. Jack Crawford from BAU has confirmed your statements so you can go in. He’s pretty out of it though as we have sedated him for the time being, to help him ride out the convulsions. The way it looks like he can be released within the next few days.“

He finds the floor Will is on, but gets lost, until one of the nurses takes mercy on him and leads him to Will’s room.

The light on the bedside table is on. The room is quiet apart from the ubiquitous beeping of the heart monitor.

He takes a seat in an armchair, looking at Will’s face, which looks a lot better than before. His heart rate and blood pressure are both okay, he briefly notes, his own, long forgotten training kicking in.

The nurse returns with a pillow and a blanket.

„If you like you can stretch out on the couch,“ he says.

„Thank you,“ Frederick replies.

He takes the pillow and the blanket but remains in his chair beside the bed. 

„Just press the call button if you need anything,“ the nurse says, then leaves quietly.

He is alone with Will—with his lover who poisoned himself just to get to Hannibal—a miracle he didn’t die in this attempt. 

Frederick recalls the brief moment during which Will turned his back to Hannibal, pretending to wipe his mouth.

He must have known what he was risking, and he still did it.

In the end, his desire to kill Hannibal Lecter was stronger than any feelings he might have had for Frederick if there were any to begin with. Maybe Will hadn’t planned to survive. 

Maybe he had _hoped_ he and Hannibal would die together.

 

Around seven o’clock an exhausted looking Jack Crawford joins him. 

„I take it Hannibal Lecter is well and alive,“ Frederick says in lieu of greeting.

„He has been transferred to the BHFCI an hour ago, heavily sedated. His stomach had to be pumped. He was poisoned with tetrodotoxin but refuses to make any statements.“

Frederick hasn’t really expected him too. He can feel Crawford eyeing him from the side.

„Polite as ever,“ he continued, shaking his head, „no matter in what condition he is, Hannibal Lecter somehow always seems to hold the upper hand. Even strapped down on a stretcher and handcuffed.“

„He is the devil,“ Frederick repeats Gideon’s words, „he is smoke.“

Crawford nods grimly, staring at Will. He is holding his hat in his hands, turning it.

„Will has never told me about you and him,“ he says.

„It’s none of your business,“ Frederick says waspishly, which he knows is not entirely true.

Crawford does not take offense at Frederick’s tone but regards him with a shrewd look. He fingers the felt hat in his hands.

„I didn’t think …“ he begins, then trails off.

„That I am gay?“ Frederick looks straight into Crawford’s eyes.

Crawford is taken aback.

„That you and Will would get on with each other. You seem like two very different people.“ 

Frederick shrugs.

„We are,“ he says finally.

„Hannibal Lecter,“ Crawford says, „was his temptation and I was resigned to the fact I lost Will to him due to my own lack of foresight. I feared he would be the sacrificial lamb. I am glad he instead chose you.“ 

Frederick considers Crawford’s words, before he replies. „He did not choose me.“ 

Crawford’s tone get’s sharp, righteous. „Will did not deceive you, Frederick. He would not do that.“

„Hannibal would.“

And after a pause Frederick adds, „Will and Hannibal might have begun to blur, become two sides of one coin. You have considered that, don’t pretend otherwise.“

„Don’t hold him responsible,“ Crawford replies, „I understand your anger but—„

„What do you think I am going to do? Break his heart? Believe me I am not holding his heart in my hands.“ Crawford’s underlying assumptions anger Frederick.

_Who will care for me? Who cares for my heart?_

Crawford looks, for one moment, genuinely sorry for him.

Frederick remembers what Will has told him about Crawford.

„It may not be much of a consolation,“ he says, „but Will understands. He doesn’t blame you. For that night.“

_If anything he blames himself._

Crawford nods awkwardly, steps closer to Will.

„You care for him.“

Frederick doesn’t reply. He wonders if Crawford knows he has been defeated. 

Crawford puts his hat on, tips the rim with a gloved finger, then leaves.

Around nine Frederick sees that Will begins to move in his sleep—a twitch of his eyelids, a deeper intake of breath. He takes his chair and sits further away, in the shadows.

Around nine thirty the nurse enters.

He opens the curtains and the blinds, and checks Will’s vitals, entering data onto the progress notes on the clip board.

„Looking good,“ he says cheerfully.

He then wakes Will. Frederick immediately pushes himself out of his chair and moves towards the door.

„Mr. Graham,“ the nurse says.

Will opens his mouth, but grimaces in pain, his right hand immediately moving up to massage his throat. He looks at his arms and then at the IV drip he is connected to, then the heartbeat monitors.

Will shakes his head, then in a barely audible voice asks for coffee, but the nurse only laughs.

„You should avoid our coffee for a while,“ he says,“any coffee, but especially ours.“

Will grimaces again, and against his will Frederick smiles. 

Will is going to be okay. That is all that matters. He silently turns to leave, when the nurse says, „There is someone who’d like to see you.“

Frederick records it all—the blank expression in his eyes, then the way he flits his gaze over Frederick’s features, reading him, almost like some sort of forensic device. Within moments Will’s face changes—the tilt of his head, the gaze. It’s as if Will leaves and another person arrives.

„Frederick,“ Will croaks, then swallows to get his next sentence out, „were you here the entire night?“

Frederick is silent for a moment.

„Oh no, I just dropped by.“ He brushes his fingers over the lapels of his jacket. 

The nurse frowns then looks quizzically at him, but when he leaves the room he thankfully doesn’t say anything.

„Can’t we leave?“

_We._

„You have to stay for a few more days,“ Frederick says as neutral as possible, „to monitor you for delayed symptoms like neurological damage, nerve damage and the like.“

Will clears his voice.

„Couldn’t you … monitor me?“

„It’s better you stay in the hospital,“ he says as firm as possible, "this is for your best.“

Will looks directly into his eyes. 

„Are you leaving me?“ Will takes Frederick’s hand.

Frederick opens and closes his mouth. To deny would be lying and what would be the point of lying? Especially with someone like Will?

"Things happened the way they did. We can't go back now."

It is the truth and there is no use denying it. They both know it. Now they must move on from this.

Will looks away. When he wipes his cheeks, Frederick realizes he has not expected his tears and he steps towards him to touch and to hold but in the last moment stays where he is. He balls his hands to fists.

„Hannibal is alive,“ he says instead.

Will remains silent.

„I don’t know much about love,“ Frederick hears himself say (he averts his eyes), „but I can see now.“

He swallows.

„This abundance of love, intricate and twisted and true. I could never give you that.“

„Is your love false?“ Will asks. 

„It’s not your truth. It’s not a love that befits you.“

„You think Hannibal’s love befits me.“

Frederick asks himself if Will is deliberately cruel.

 _(Will is Will. Like the sea is the sea, the storm the storm.)_

„You know the answer to that.“

When was the last time, Frederick asks himself, he so acutely felt the pain of someone else? 

„Get better soon,“ he says. 

„Don’t go, Frederick,“ Will whispers, „I can rebuild myself around your love. I can undo this.“ 

Against his will Frederick steps closer to the hospital bed. 

„You cannot undo Hannibal.“

Will takes Frederick’s hand. 

_(He never could.)_

„He would have killed you,“ Will says, „he was so close. You know that.“

When Frederick attempts to withdraw his hand, Will tightens his grip, pulling him closer, with more strength than Frederick would have attested a man who almost succeeded in poisoning himself. 

If he were stronger he would be able to go. It would be better for Will in the end, but because he is weak, he cards his fingers through Will’s curls, sighs into the embrace, tells himself to savior this moment—for later.

Will clings to Frederick. His pupils are slightly dilated, the color of his face pallid and grey. He is still the most beautiful thing Frederick has ever seen in his life. He is the most beautiful thing Frederick will ever see.

Frederick caresses his face with both hands. 

„I love you,“ Frederick says, „I never knew it was possible to love like this. If I wouldn’t have met you, I might not have ever known.“

He kisses Will, tenderly onto his forehead. Will gives him a watery, confused smile.

„I thank you,“ Frederick says, „I did not deserve your forgiveness and your kindness.“

_(His heart is so heavy, so heavy.)_

Will throws his arms around Frederick.

„Let’s go home,“ Will whispers, clasping one of Frederick’s hands, burying himself into Frederick’s embrace. Frederick gently takes his arms and pulls away from him to look at his face.

„The man I used to be, would have taken whatever you have to give, Will,“ he tells him, „without asking where it comes from, what it does to you. I would have taken and taken and taken until nothing would have been left of you.“

Will shakes his head again.

„You’re not my psychiatrist, Frederick,“ he says, 

„I am harming you,“ Frederick says, almost in despair.

„Bullshit,“ Will replies, stubbornly twisting himself out of Frederick’s grip to be able to put his hands on Frederick again, „I don’t want the psychiatrist, I want the man who would have taken. be the man you used to be.“

(Maybe this is too early, his inner voice whispers, the events of last night are still fresh. They are both still suffering from Acute Stress Disorder. Maybe, they can wait a few days. Give them, give himself more time.)

Will brings their foreheads together, takes Frederick’s hand and presses dry, little kisses onto his knuckles. The expression of his face is frantic.

„Will,“ says Frederick again.

„Do you remember the day we ran into each other at the news agent?“ Frederick asks, as gently as possible, stroking Will’s hair.

Will frowns at Frederick’s question. After a pause he nods.

„Was it a coincidence?“ 

Will looks down. 

„It wasn’t, was it?“ Frederick asks, his voice soft. 

Will does not answer. After a while he hesitantly shakes his head.

„When we met each other at Freddie Lounds’ book launch … was it a coincidence that the seat beside me was empty?“

Will pulls his shoulders up.

„Please,“ Frederick says, „please tell me.“

Finally Will shakes his head.

The admission drains Will. Tension bleeds out of his muscles, and Frederick can feel him sag against his chest.

„I had to,“ Will whispers, "I had to. You should have seen yourself."

„It’s alright,“ says Frederick soothingly, „I am so glad you told me.“

He holds Will close to him.

„Do you remember that day in the hospital, when I came to see you?“ he asks Will.

„Yes. You just looked at me,“ Will says.

„What did you see?“ asks Frederick, closing his eyes.

Will is quiet for a long time, holding on to Frederick. When Frederick is already resigned to not get an answer, Will speaks.

„I saw you. I saw your losses. I saw so much that wasn’t there before. You used to wear such a hideous mask I couldn’t even bear to look at you, but in that moment it was gone. It was just you, and you were so lost. I saw the loneliness you endured your whole life, and your resignation to it. I saw how you had declared defeat and just built your life around your defeats, and I saw the destruction Hannibal has left behind.“

Frederick strokes Will’s hair, and again, he stops speaking for a long time. They sit like this together, holding each other. Just when Frederick thinks, Will might have fallen asleep, he speaks again, his voice barely a whisper.

„Abigail went to her death so quietly. In that moment when Hannibal called her name she knew. In the days after I woke up in the hospital I remembered again and again and again. Hannibal had wanted her to live—but when I betrayed him, he had no other choice than to kill her. My betrayal had taken away the only place she could have had in the world. And then—there was no place in the whole world left for her."

Will laughs—a pained, strangled sound.

„I lost too much. Everyone lost so much, because of me. Jack was in a coma. Beverly is dead. Alana is in a wheelchair. Abigail. There is so much blood on my hands. I thought I could win this game, and everyone paid for my arrogance.“

„Hannibal did this,“ Frederick says, „not you.“

„Hannibal did what he did because of the choices I made,“ Will says.

„No,“ Frederick says, „Hannibal is a killer. He is also many other things, but this is a profound truth about him. Maybe if you’d have done things differently, he would have killed someone else, but killed he would have. His big house—the beautifully furnished rooms, the classical music, the paintings—these are all distractions in the end. The truth about him is the cellar. The fundament this house rests on is his kill room. The justifications he makes, the philosophy with which he dresses up his kills—all of these are irrelevant. In the end everything is a facade, as fragile and disposable as a house of cards.“

„You don’t understand Hannibal,“ Will just says.

„Not like you do,“ Frederick agrees. „I never could.“

„When I saw you in the doorway to my room, I thought, if I can at least save one person, then all of this wouldn’t have been senseless,“ Will says haltingly, „I only want to save one man. One life. I have brought destruction and death into everyone’s life but I wanted to keep you safe.“

„You can’t help it, can you?“ Frederick finally says, „you read me. You see me. You can’t help it.“

Will looks at him with widened eyes. 

„The man I used to be,“ Frederick continues, „would have never had the courage to stick a stupid fruitknife into Hannibal's arm. Would have never have the courage to let you go.“

„Tell me what to do,“ Will asks, „tell me how to fix me.“

Frederick shakes his head and kisses Will.

„My empathy disorder,“ Will says bitterly, „so this is it? How did you put it—a unique cocktail of personality disorders and neuroses-“

„It’s not a disorder,“ Frederick says, „I was wrong.“

„You’re not the only one,“ Will points out.

„I am compromised. I am in no state to diagnose or treat you and I won’t—but I know your empathy is not a disorder. We are the ones suffering from a disorder—a distinct, a horrific lack of empathy, lack of compassion, lack of heart. You are better than any of us. You are more human than any of us. That is maybe why the devil himself has fallen in love with you.“

„I can’t … help you,“ he says, „you need to learn to protect yourself. You need to stop punishing yourself. You need to speak to someone you can trust.“

„But I trust you,“ Will says, stubborn like a child.

„You shouldn’t,“ says Frederick.

„But you said—„

„You shouldn’t trust me _because_ I love you. I am selfish. Love is a selfish thing. You need someone who doesn’t want you.“

„I trust you, Frederick,“ Will says again.

Frederick laughs, tiredly. „I don’t trust myself. And you don’t either—you are just afraid of the alternatives.“

Will lets his hands sink, then lies back in the bed.

„What will happen now?“

„You will get a referral, from the hospital’s head of psychology. I’ll discuss my notes with your therapist if you give me permission. You will commence therapy—at least I hope you’ll do so. It’s your decision in the end, but I hope you realize that a therapy conducted by a neutral therapist will benefit you.“

„What about you?“ Will asks, „what will you do?“

„I’ll be waiting,“ Frederick says, smiling with a lightness he doesn’t feel. „I won’t go anywhere.“

Will stares at the ceiling. 

His hand inches closer to Frederick’s. 

„You think that my only motivation to be with you is regret and guilt.“

„Yes,“ Frederick confirms, smiling wearily.

„I’ll prove you wrong, _Dr. Chilton_ ,“ Will looks at him, squeezing Frederick’s hand. „You’re a lousy psychiatrist. Thank God you’re pretty.“

Frederick laughs.


	20. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I nearly didn't finish this due to Hannibal Season 3 coming out and Frederick Chilton's fate. I struggled with writer's block because of negative comments although I receive far more nice and encouraging ones, but still—I guess I'm a bit fragile. 
> 
> Anyway I'm glad I finished this. I wanted to give Will and Frederick the happy ending they never got in canon ;)
> 
> Sorry, this is not beta'ed so you'll find mistakes!
> 
> * * *

„Ah, he lives,“ says Benedict, while prepping an order for four large cappuccinos. There’s a queue, and Frederick takes off his coat and goes behind the counter, taking immediately orders.

They work quietly and efficiently beside each other, with only the necessary communication. Some of the regulars smile at him and their „How are you?“’s are a little more worried but apart from that no one bothers him.

„Are you ok, man?“ Benedict asks when the rush of morning customers has tapered off around nine, then adds, „I’ve heard about your boyfriend and his cannibal ex.“

He mimicks a monster by lifting his hands and forming them to claws. If Hannibal Lecter could see that he would be deply offended, a thought that Frederick cheers up

Frederick wipes the coffee machine down, checks the water, the beans. He piles empty, clean espresso cups on top of the espresso machine.

„Am I fired?“ he asks.

Benedict shrugs.

„You have to talk to Sienna, but I don’t think so,“ he says.

Frederick can’t help but observe how much comfort he takes in doing these mundane tasks—being at work, being a barista, cleaning up, preparing orders. When he looks at the coffee shop in front of him, everything seems manageable, bearable.

Sienna comes out of the office around ten. 

„Hey,“ she only says, „we’ve got a few shift changes, can you work Thursday afternoons instead of Wednesday mornings?“

„So, I’m not fired,“ Frederick says.

„I’ll fire you if I catch you doing drugs in the shop, if you steal from us or if you start beating up customers, but I won’t fire you for being attacked by your boyfriend’s ex,“ Sienna replies. 

„I … deceived you,“ Frederick points out, „then I didn’t come to work without calling sick or taking days off.“

„Yeah about that… I found out who you were pretty quick. Do you think I don’t know how to google? Ok, now get the water bottles, fill up the fridge, clean the tables and keep an eye on the pastries.“

„You never said anything!“ Frederick says in an accusatory tone.

„Well, neither did you,“ Sienna shrugs, „also, I figured you’re dealing with enough bullshit.“

„Sienna made everyone promise to not breathe a word to you,“ Benedict chimes in.

Frederick nods a few times, somehow disbelieving and dazed.

„It’s good to have you back,“ Sienna says with a wry smile.

Benedict puts a hand on his shoulder. „If you need anything, tell me. We missed you here.“

Frederick blinks. Until now he hasn’t been aware he had friends, but right now it hits him—these people are his friends. They don’t want anything from him, no favours, no handouts. They just like him—as a person. It’s a bewildering concept.

„I won’t let you down again, I promise,“ he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Thankfully the arrival of a bunch of workers from the surrounding office buildings distracts everyone and for an hour they’re busily readying beverages and serving customers. 

Sienna and Benedict both don’t ask about Will. They know enough now, Frederick assumes, what with the news coverage, and Freddie Lounds’ obnoxious, detailed „articles“. The rest of his shift is filled with banter and jokes. 

 

Sometimes Jack Crawford calls him, asks him about Will, showing him a report now and then, and Frederick goes along with it, adds his remarks. He doesn’t want to anger Jack, but he thinks he goes too far in pretending to be ignorant of the fact that having him of all people looking over reports regarding Will’s or Hannibal’s mental state is inappropriate. It’s all a ruse, as he can see Jack watching him like a hawk, trying to gauge how far he is in love with Will and how he can use his weakness. There will always be a next serial killer and Jack wants to be prepared. Rumours (or Freddie's Tattlecrime page) has it, he already visited Hannibal Lecter three times.

Once or twice he has the nerve to suggest seeing Hannibal to „evaluate“ him but Frederick refuses, rolling his eyes. 

Upon arrival Will was evaluated, examined, then swiftly medicated. He is cooperative, everyone at the clinic says. The well-trained staff doesn’t take occasional abrasiveness or rudeness personal and after the first days it stops. He engages with his therapist, takes part in self-help groups, begins writing a journal, he takes up pottery and painting, he develops friendships to other patients. He takes his meds. 

Frederick visits Will every week for half an hour. He has to force himself not to visit him every day and to stay longer and longer … but it’s good for Will to not see him too often. 

Will wrestles with bouts of depression but different than in the past he discusses strategies with the doctors, is open to treatment. Surprising his therapist and Frederick he provides support to fellow patients at several occasions.

Therapy is going more than well and after being initially cautious, the prognosis is optimistic.

Frederick, in accordance with his therapist and the hospital administration's recommendations stops visiting after two months, when Will seems stable enough. Everyone agrees that in order to achieve further improvements, Will needs to cut certain ties with the recent past for the moment, especially Frederick, and instead focus entirely on his therapy. Will is improving so well, he’ll hardly notice Frederick's absence he believes.

Wrong. Very, very wrong.

Will, goes from exemplary patient to nightmare of the whole unit within an hour, immediately digging his heels in like a stubborn donkey. He throws his food tray against the wall of his room. He refuses to take his meds. Consequently, his condition worsens over the next few days. He turns into a twitchy, abrasive, introvert mess. His yelling can be heard two units further, and once he has to be chemically restrained.

He demands „his“ visits, even then, as the valium slurs his speech. 

Patients should not be able to blackmail their mental healthcare providers, Frederick knows from own experience, but he’s secretly glad, when the director calls him personally after a week to inform him that Will Graham has requested his presence, that they’ve come to the conclusion, therapy might be more successful if Frederick continues to see Will.

And so Frederick goes back.

Will, on medication, is sometimes slightly out of it, but he manages conversation.

Frederick is trained to handle medicated patients but he is not here as Will’s psychiatrist. (Would "friend" be more applicable? Or "acquaintance"? Maybe "former lover" is the correct descriptor of their relationship?) He sees Will as a private visitor and communication between them is a challenge.

Frederick avoids physical contact. It’s best to try draw clear borders to not confuse Will he tells himself.

Will doesn’t ask for it but at times his fingers twitch towards Frederick. 

Frederick talks about the coffee shop. He dutifully mentions Alana and Freddie, Jack Crawford, Brian Zeller and Jimmy Price, but then Will, interrupts and asks him about Cara and his mother.

During the next visit, Will is already better, sits upright, his hair combed and his eyes awake and present. He manages a smile when Frederick enters.

One of his co-workers has adopted a puppy and Frederick shows Will the pictures. The puppy’s name is Rico, and he is very soft and fluffy, with a big wet nose and impossibly huge eyes.

Will swipes through the pics, a faint smile on his lips. 

„I like dogs,“ he says suddenly and grins stupidly at the pic.

„You do,“ Frederick confirms, surprised, his head tilted. 

„I miss Winston,“ Will says, louder, and before Frederick can say something, „I really, really miss him. All of them.“

It’s this moment when Frederick realises, that Will might be fragile, might be forever teetering on the edge of mental illness, burdened, overwhelmed with his gift but he has also what it takes to come back. And right now, Frederick realises, Will has found his way home.

 

In spring the Pellegrini gets busier during the afternoons. In March they can stow the large outdoor heaters away, creating more space on the pavement. Frederick’s work gets busier but he doesn’t mind it. 

Once Freddie Lounds comes by, snapping pictures of him. She would write about him anyway so he sits down with her and answers some of her invasive, tasteless questions. The next day Tattlecrime writes about a „heartbroken former lover of Will Graham“. Again, he isn’t the center of the post anyway—it’s all about Hannibal, who Lounds describes as some sort of lovesick if murderous suitor. The only thing Frederick delights in is, that Hannibal will read this drivel in his cell in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane and likely be upset. Poor Matthew Brown is mentioned as well, the entire article painting Will as a seducer who used his beautiful face to enthral the people around him. Lounds uses the pic of Will in his tux at her book launch, looking devastatingly beautiful. There are only two or three lines about Frederick. He’s, as usual, just an afterthought.

Alana comes by a few days later, in a crimson red coat, gripping her walking stick. Immediately Frederick sees that she doesn’t actually need it any longer. Surprisingly she turns out to be one of those people who are stronger and harder after being broken. The walking stick serves as a reminder of what she survived. She orders a small latte, forgoes the small talk.

„Will Graham will be released soon.“

Frederick nods. 

Alana watches him carefully, as he busies himself with preparing another order.

„I’m here to offer you a position,“ she says, turning the steaming cup in her white hands.

„You don’t like me,“ Frederick replies, „you think I’m a fraud. I might be a lousy psychiatrist but I make excellent coffee.“

„Oh, but you _were_ a fraud,“ Alana says, brutally honest, „the recent events however led me to believe you might be suitable for the post of director of the inpatient mental health services of the Baltimore Psychiatric Secure Unit.“

„Is that how it’s called now?“ Frederick arranges the colourful small chocolate bars at the cash register.

„That’s how I re-named it,“ Alana says, „I am in the midst of re-structuring the hospital. The re-naming is a good way to communicate to our stakeholders we acknowledge the term ‚Criminally Insane‘ is of the past, wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Chilton?“

Frederick’s lips twitch.

„As far as I remember Hannibal Lecter is an inpatient of the … _Baltimore Psychiatric Secure Unit_ now.“

Alana doesn’t even flinch.

„As long as I cooperate he will be for the rest of his life,“ she says.

„You make it sound as if you are the prisoner and he holds the keys,“ Frederick says. As she blows cool air onto her coffee he looks at her face. She gazes cooly back, slightly impatient. 

Alana is gone, he realises. The woman standing before him is a stranger. 

She blinks slowly, smiling a smile he has never seen on her face before—not malicious per se, but mirthless.

„Hannibal Lecter got away for so long because we underestimated him, again and again. I cannot guarantee he won’t get out again, but I, at least, won’t underestimate him again.“

Frederick nods. „I can believe that,“ he mumbles. The stranger wearing Alana’s face makes him uncomfortable.

„Are you still Will’s lover?“

Frederick blinks. 

„Right now he doesn’t need a lover,“ he huffs finally, looking at her red fingernails. They are so red, they look like blood dripping from her fingers.

„But you love him,“ Alana states. Her tone suggests mockery but when he looks at her again, he is confused to see a softer expression in her eyes.

„I died in Lecter’s house,“ she says, still smiling her eery smile, „but Will … didn’t. I am glad for it.“

She puts the coffee cup down, adjusts her scarf.

„I’m grateful about your job offer but I must refuse,“ Frederick says stiffly, „I will send you a list of suitable candidates and connect you with them if you wish. I … I am happy here.“ 

She looks around, then nods. As she turns around, she takes her walking stick up again, but doesn’t use it. 

„Give Will my best,“ she says.

 

The encounter with Alana has rattled Frederick. He reads about the hospital in various newspapers, mentions of Lecter appearing here and there. He has no nightmares any longer but he finally calls a therapist, makes an appointment. Of course he is not amenable towards treatment of his PTSD _just_ because of Will (that would be co-dependancy after all) but he can’t deny he wants to be mentally stable for Will.

And then, when only a few days later, Will stands at the entrance of the Pellegrini, Frederick knows he’s been waiting. All the time.

Will bends down, something jumps out of his arms—a puppy, Frederick sees. He leaves the counter and approaches Will and his new dog. Will smiles at him.

„You didn’t call,“ Frederick says, „I could have picked you up.“ 

Will shakes his head.

„I wanted to come here, with Tim.“

The puppy, on hearing his name, barks happily.

„I imagined it exactly like this—you in your work outfit and your apron, making coffee, joking with your co-workers and the customers.“

They both pet Tim who soaks up their attention and finally rolls onto the warm, tiled ground of the entrance area..

„Tim,“ Will scolds him, but Frederick already tickles his belly.

„I never apologised,“ Will says suddenly, pushing his glasses up the nose, „and I thought I should. I’m here to apologise for the pain I caused you. For what I did to you.“

„It was worth it,“ Frederick says, „Hannibal is behind bars. You caught him. I am glad you did what you did.“

Will regards him carefully, not entirely sure he’s being sarcastic.

„I appreciate your apology but it was not your fault,“ Frederick says, in a tone he used with patients in the past, „We were all reeling in the aftermath of Hannibal Lecter. We still are.“

He pulls his hand away from the puppy, faintly shocked by the overwhelming desire to touch Will welling up in him. 

Something else occurs to him.

„Will you go and see him?“

Will hesitates before he replies. He doesn’t look at Frederick.

„Yeah. I think so.“

Frederick gives Tim a last rub on his belly and stands up. Tim isn’t happy about his interrupted belly rub and whines.

„Are you not going to warn me? Tell me not to get too close?“ Will asks.

„I … I wish you luck,“ Frederick replies, feeling weary, „you will get exactly as close to Hannibal as you wish to get. You do not heed warnings … so, no, I won’t warn you. You know what you’re doing.“ 

For a long time Frederick has told himself that Hannibal was merely toying with Will out of pure fascination but he has seen the bond between Will and Hannibal, has seen the uncontrollable force of it. Frederick realised too late, that even Hannibal was not in control of it, maybe the most frightening realisation Frederick ever had in regards to Hannibal. Hannibal might be the devil—he might be smoke, but something in Will conquered him and rendered his heart human. Once Hannibal learns he cannot simply rip this heart ouf of his chest, he might come to resent Will for wounding him in such a way.

Will too, rises. He looks heartachingly beautiful in the soft afternoon light and Frederick knows then that it will never stop. He will never stop to want. 

„Frederick—„

„Goodbye, Will.“

He walks back to the counter. Sienna presses his hand. 

„All good there?“ she whispers.

Frederick nods, opening the dishwasher and putting the bigger coffee mugs onto the shelves.

 

Cara has announced she might come by for a glass of wine so he only yells, „The door is open,“ when he hears her knock.

He hasn’t really expected to see Will again. 

„I brought Tim,“ Will says in an apologetic manner, lifting Tim in arms. Tim wriggles around, jumps out of Will’s arms and immediately runs over to Frederick, then throws himself on the back, demanding his belly rub.

„Sorry, he’s very young still. I just got him a few days ago, so I don’t want to leave him alone yet.“

Frederick bends down and rubs Tim’s head. Tim noses him, whining.

„He _really_ likes you,“ Will says, „he isn’t shy but he never does that with anyone else.“

„Now you’re using poor Tim to get to me, Will Graham,“ he says, pretending to roll his eyes.

Will smiles. „Does it work?“

Frederick caresses Tim’s belly. Tim paws at him.

„Maybe,“ he relents.

Will’s kneels down on the carpet and ruffles Tim’s head.

„Good boy,“ he praises him, „you did well!“

They both continue to pet Tim, then Will says, „I won’t go to see Hannibal.“

Frederick shrugs. „Might as well get it out of the way.“

Will shakes his head but Frederick continues.

„You still think of him. It doesn’t matter if you go or don’t go.“

„I’d rather see you,“ Will says, „is that ok for you?“

When Frederick gets up to get a bottle of wine, Tim follows him, looking up at him with huge brown eyes.

He pours both of them a glass. Will takes a sip, then leans forward and kisses Frederick, first chaste, then he wriggles his tongue in. 

Frederick, fool that he is, kisses back, and when Will parts his lips he accepts the invitation.

„I have tried to forget you,“ Frederick says.

„I know,“ Will whispers against his lips, then kisses him again, „have you been successful?“

„I don’t think so,“ Frederick admits, disgusted by his own weakness. 

„Good,“ Will says, then takes Frederick’s hand and lays it under his shirt. Will’s skin is warm and soft. Frederick strokes upwards until he finds a nipple and pinches it, rolling it between his thumb and his index finger. With his other hand he presses against Will’s crotch and begins to gently circle it. Will first releases a breathy, little sound, but as soon Frederick slides his hand under his waistband and palms his hardening cock, he moans so loud and shamelessly, Frederick fears the neighbours will think someone is being tortured in his living room. 

Tim, hops onto the sofa, lifts his head, then curls up there, only his fluffy litle ears twitching.

„Missed you,“ Will murmurs, „missed this.“

He pulls Frederick into the bedroom and throws him onto the bed. Frederick leans up on his elbows, watching Will unceremoniously toe off his boots, then push his jeans down, movements impatient. 

„You’re not wearing underwear,“ Frederick remarks, while he unzips his pants, „you were optimistic about today weren’t you.“

„I’ll show you optimistic,“ Will says, and in the next moment he is already pulling down Frederick’s denims, then straddling him. 

With a smirk Will pulls his shirt and t-shirt over his head, throwing it into the ground behind him. The fact that Will Graham is completely naked, while he is still almost full dressed, arouses him more than he can say. Will’s cock curves up, the glans shiny—he can see clear fluid welling up, and reaches out to take Will in hand and smear the fluid around, strokes him. Will throws his head back while pinching both his nipples.

Frederick’s cock is so hard it aches. Just as he grips Will’s hips, Will leans forward, presses a hand flat against Frederick’s chest and lifts himself up a little.

Frederick reaches around and caresses Will’s ass, then strokes the cleft, only to discover, Will’s hole is lubed up, obscenely wet and his fingers sink in without any resistance.

„How is that for optimistic,“ Will says breathlessly and Frederick laughs. Nonetheless he presses in, straining his wrist to get deeper into Will’s hot, tight welcoming body.

Frederick curls his fingers, pushes in and out, gently first, in a searching manner. Only a minute later, Will tenses, moans and bears down onto his fingers, his cock leaking more pre-cum. Jackpot.

„Oh god. Please,“ Will babbles, „please.“

Frederick strokes the nub only lightly, even though Will is rotating his hips to feel more of Frederick’s fingers. He quiets a little, when Frederick begins to scissor them a little, bites his lips and scrunches up his eyebrows. 

„Good?“ Frederick asks unnecessarily.

„Ngh,“ Will says.

For a while Frederick concentrates on stroking and pushing Will’s prostate, watching Will’s face intently until Will hisses and lifts himself up, letting Frederick’s fingers slip out of him. 

Frederick takes his cock and holds it upright, an invitation for Will to ride him. Will sinks down slowly. With his left hand Frederick holds onto the bedsheets, so he doesn’t fuck into Will, just thrust up and bury himself in that tight, wet heat.

Will sits down, then squeezes around him. Frederick nearly passes out with bliss. When he thinks he caught his breath again, Will begins to fuck himself on Frederick’s cock, in a fluid motion. He can see how his cock slides in and out of Will, can see Will’s rock-hard cock twitch while dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.

„Fuckfuckfuck oh fuck,“ Will wails, and Frederick can’t help but feel childish, completely inappropriate pride to be the owner of the cock, that makes Will lose his mind like this. He increases his speed, then changes the angle by pushing his hips up, and Will tightens around him. 

So good, Frederick thinks non-sensically, so fucking good, it was never like this before he met Will, how does he do it, how does he feels so much, how is his heart so full. 

Will screams a loud „Ahhh“, his jaw slack and his eyes closed, as he cums over Frederick’s stomach. His hole is spasming and clenching so violently around Frederick, it pulls him into his orgasm as well and he shoots his load into Will’s trembling body.

Will slows down but only stops moving when he feels Frederick’s cock softening inside him. Frederick is still slightly twitching, all his nerves aflame under his skin. He can feel every breeze, he can feel Will’s heartbeat, can feel his breath on his neck.

„I never want to leave this room again,“ Will mumbles, his arm draped over Frederick’s chest. 

He smells of sex, sweat, semen and Frederick has never smelled anything sweeter. 

„I love you,“ Frederick says softly, looking at the ceiling. 

Will raises his head to look at him, his eyes half-lidded with afterglow. Frederick looks back, calmly waiting until Will has finished taking him apart in his head. 

„I love you too,“ Will says, slowly blinking like a cat.

He puts his head back down again and Frederick idly combs through his damp locks with his fingers.

„Never let me go,“ Will mumbles sleepily, holding on to Frederick, with both arms.

Frederick knows some promise shouldn’t be given, some shouldn’t be expected. It would be wise to be careful. He should have learned this lesson in the past few years. 

He presses a soft kiss onto Will’s head.

„Never,“ he promises.

fin


End file.
